


Snape's Promise

by melolcatsi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe, Eventual cuddles, Fluff, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Good Severus Snape, Pre-Hogwarts, Severitus, Severus Snape Adopts Harry Potter, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Young Harry, filling an emotional void in canon, not too plotty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2018-12-06 11:05:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 90,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11599344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melolcatsi/pseuds/melolcatsi
Summary: AU:Dumbledore decides that the Dursleys are not a suitable family for Harry. He asks Snape to take in his rival's son, appealing to the man's enduring devotion to Lily and the promise he made to her. A reluctant Snape takes in an eight-year-old Harry on a provisional basis. Severitus: Snape as Harry's guardian (not biological father) NOT SLASH, pairings TBD.





	1. Chapter 1

Albus Dumbledore tapped a long, frail finger against the wood of his desk. Behind him, Fawkes shifted on his perch, crooning softly to himself. The phoenix's quiet song was one of the few sounds filling the long silence in the massive office. It was accompanied by the soft whir of several silver instruments, the incessant ticking of a clock whose hands inexplicably ran backward, and Severus Snape's occasional impatient sigh.

At last the sound of stone grinding against stone filled the air as the magical staircase behind them shifted open. Minerva McGonagall came sweeping up the steps, her lips pursed as tight as her bun.

"Albus, Severus," she greeted the two of them in turn, nodding politely to each of them. Her eyes flashed from behind her spectacles. "Am I to assume this is about the Potter boy?"

"Isn't it always?" Snape drawled, arching and eyebrow.

Dumbledore gestured for McGonagall to have a seat. His hand fell back to a folded piece of parchment on his desk. "Arabella Figg has written me for a third time… and it seems that young Harry is not as well-cared for as we'd hoped."

"Meaning?" McGonagall pressed, a new edge entering her tone.

"Meaning," Dumbledore sighed, closing his eyes, "that he time has come to find the boy a new home."

Snape and McGonagall spoke simultaneously.

"Surely things cannot be that bad," Snape hissed.

"But Lily Potter's protection—won't it be undone?" McGonagall demanded.

Dumbledore addressed Snape first. His calm blue eyes met Snape's gaze squarely. "Circumstances are no longer tolerable for the Potter boy. I am certain you can muster some sympathy, Severus."

Snape looked away, slightly abashed.

Dumbledore turned to McGonagall. "The magic protecting young Harry is preserved by Lily Potter's enduring love for her son. I had hoped that Harry's aunt might offer a shred of that maternal affection, thereby keeping Lily's sentiment alive, but as Harry has aged her meager attachment to him has only waned. Because Harry gains nothing by staying with the Dursleys, I feel it is prudent to find him a new home, one where that protective magic might be rekindled."

Snape felt another pointed look from the headmaster pass over him, but he chose to feign ignorance.

"Well, what do you propose?" McGonagall demanded. "We've discussed the possibilities already, many years ago. The boy has no other living relatives, and even the Potters' closest friends are mostly indisposed. Remus Lupin would have been an ideal guardian, but he feels unequipped—"

"Yes, with his affliction," Snape muttered, though he kept his voice low.

"Even amongst us… you are far too busy, headmaster. I would hardly be a better choice, and I haven't the energy to raise a young boy…. What else is there to be done, save perhaps put the boy in an orphanage and hope for the best?"

"There are," Dumbledore murmured, "other options…."

Snape took a moment to stare at Dumbledore in disbelief. "You can't… headmaster, you must be joking—"

"I would that I were, Severus," Dumbledore cut him off sadly. "But of all people, you knew Lily very well, did you not? Few can claim that."

"At a time," Snape snapped, "we were close, yes."

"Bonds forged by friendship do no die out so easily. Some burn on, even in the ashes…."

Snape could scarcely keep his lip from curling into a snarl. "My ancient friendship with Lily Potter does not make me a suitable guardian for her orphaned son—"

"But you have a connection, Severus," McGonagall cut in. "That is more than most could claim. You've a memory of the boy's mother, something to impart to him."

Snape studied McGonagall silently. She had always been clever. He wondered if she had already guessed at the truth that Dumbledore danced around, his most painful and most carefully-kept secret.

"Pensieve could do the same work. I never intended to rear a child, especially not the Boy Who Lived. I am wholly unsuited—"

"I disagree," Dumbledore interrupted. "But perhaps you need to think this over. Minerva? Have you anything to add?"

McGonagall's unusually piercing grey eyes held Snape's gaze for several unbearably long seconds. "I think you are up to the challenge, Severus." And with that she rose from her chair. "I should get back to the corridors. The students have been rather bold of late."

She strode back out of the room, shrinking as she went until there was no trace of the stern woman, only a tabby cat with strange markings around its eyes. The fleet-footed creature padded down the stairs and slipped out of the office.

Once the grinding of the stone passage halted and Snape and Dumbledore were once more alone, Snape began, "I cannot do this. There must be another way—"

"When you came to me, Severus, I asked you to promise me one thing. You swore to me that you would do all I asked, all you could, to keep Lily Potter's child safe."

"From a distance!" Snape hissed. " I don't know how to raise a child, especially not James Potter's son. He would be better off in other hands—"

"Ah," Dumbledore cut in, his eyes twinkling slightly, "this is not about your inability to take him on. This is about a schoolyard rivalry—"

" 'Rivalry' is hardly the word," Snape growled. "Potter was a menace. He tormented me for years. He was the wedge that severed me from Lily, the one good thing…." Snape trailed off, his voice growing hoarse. He cleared his throat and continued, "I will not—cannot—raise Potter's son. I say this for my sake as well as the boy's."

"Should the child pay for the sins of the father?" Dumbledore inquired mildly. "Would you condemn him to the same misery that bred so much unhappiness in you?"

"I…." But Snape's rebuttal about the severity of his situation died on his lips. Dumbledore had, after all, placed the boy with the muggles in the first place, and Snape knew that Harry's relatives had been extremely reluctant to take him in. If Dumbledore thought it was necessary to remove it from the situation, something serious must have occurred.

Flashes of Snape's own home life leapt to mind. Repressed fragments—his father drinking, his father swinging his belt around, his mother crying, hiding in his room….

Dumbledore had known about this weakness, and he'd struck.

"Meet with the boy," Dumbledore suggested. "Take him in for a short time to see if the two of you are compatible. If you are ill-suited to each other, we will look into making other arrangements."

Snape hmphed noncommittally.

"I know this is painful," Dumbledore said gently, "and this is, I promise, the last time I shall bring this up. But Lily Potter died for her son. She gave everything she had for him. Would you not be honoring her memory, and your feelings for her, most nobly by taking up this burden?"

Severus rose from his seat. His black robes closed around him like a dark, dense cloud. "You're right," he conceded sardonically. "This is extremely painful."

And with that he strode out of the office, his mind far too unsettled for his liking.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Snape continued to stare at the young boy, who seemed to be shrinking into himself beneath Snape's withering gaze.

There was not much to him, Snape thought. The image of his father, to be certain. Scraggly hair, scrawny limbs. He was awfully small for a boy of eight, going on nine. Dressed in oversized, ill-fitting clothing and a shoddy pair of glasses that had been taped together. He half-stood, half-hid behind his trunk, eying Snape warily, as if he might be venomous. Snape could make out the boy's now-legendary lightning scar, half concealed by his shaggy black hair.

And the eyes. Of course. Green and clear, like hers, and absolutely unbearable.

Snape turned from the boy back to the muggle family, the Dursleys, who'd huddled together at the foot of the stairs. The fat, neckless father stood in front, with his wife and his pudgy son peering out from his side. The horse-faced woman looked murderous, and the boy looked o be some combination of curious and terrified.

"He has all his belongings?" Snape inquired.

Vernon Dursley nodded sharply. He was trying to put on a brave face but was failing at it. "And you're taking the boy? You won't be coming back?"

"Not likely," Snape told him, watching as a bit of relief and smug satisfaction broke through the man's terror.

"And your kind won't be bothering us anymore?" he continued, almost gleeful.

Snape couldn't help himself. He smiled a thin, cruel smile as he fingered his wand, which he held concealed up his sleeve. He likely wouldn't have to perform a single spell to unhinge these muggles, just flourish his wand a bit. It would serve them right.

His eyes flashed to Petunia, who he remembered all too well. Her cruelty toward Lily had been a source of great torment. He could still see her in his mind's eye as a spiteful little girl mocking his clothes, calling him a freak, trying to tear Lily from his side….

No, he thought, it wouldn't be worth the headache he might cause, satisfying as it might have been to put the lot of them in their place.

"My kind will be keeping a close eye on you," Snape informed them coolly. "After all, you know too much. Come, Potter."

"Well, we didn't bloody well choose this!" Vernon sputtered. "You tell them to leave us alone, you hear? We'll mind our own business here, and you all can mind yours—"

"I would mind your step," Snape advised. "The Ministry will be monitoring you closely, I would imagine. If you keep your heads down and your noses clean, who knows? They may even decide not to make you simply… disappear."

All three Dursleys paled at those words.

"Mum!" Dudley squealed. "They can't—"

"Hush," Vernon hissed. "Listen here, we're happy to forget the boy ever existed—"

"Good," Snape said. "Time to go, Potter."

The young boy ducked his head down and started tugging at his trunk, which was much too bulky and heavy for a boy of eight.

Snape sighed and flicked his wand, which was still concealed up his sleeve, at the trunk. Instantly the trunk seemed to weigh a thousand times less, making it possible for Harry to maneuver it out the door.

They headed down the Dursley's drive, out toward the street.

"Sir?"

Snape glanced down at the small boy, whose voice was so faint and uncertain that he barely heard it.

"Yes?" Snape sighed.

"The Dursleys won't really be harmed, will they?"

Snape almost rolled his eyes. "No, Potter."

The boy seemed to relax a little. "And… and I'm going to live with you?"

"Temporarily, yes. Until Professor Dumbledore can place you in a better home."

The boy nodded to himself, as if this was just confirming what he already knew. "And... are you really a wizard?" This he asked in a hushed, reverent tone.

The boy was as dense as his father, Snape thought.

"Yes. I was given to understand that Dumbledore explained this all to you."

"And Hagrid," Harry added eagerly. "It's just… I can't believe it!"

Good God, Snape thought. James Potter's son, completely flabbergasted by the mere thought of magic. He wasn't sure he had the patience for this.

"Now might be a good time to start believing," Snape advised him dryly. He scanned the deserted street and the shuttered houses, searching for any sign of muggles. Thankfully, this neighborhood seemed extremely antisocial and reclusive. How he despised coming out into these areas where he was forced to exercise caution for something as simple as Apparition. Thankfully, he'd chosen a particularly quiet moment to take his leave.

"Here, Potter," he commanded. "Take hold of my arm and don't let go. Unless, of course, you care to be sliced to ribbons."

Harry winced, undoubtedly imagining being magically ripped apart.

"And keep a tight hold on your trunk," Snape added.

With the boy clinging to his arm for dear life, Snape scanned the streets one more time before conjuring to mind the image of his humble home at Spinner's End.

The world distorted as an immense pressure began twisting around Snape, one that was only too familiar to him. Privet Drive disappeared, swallowed by blackness, before a wavering new location began to appear, at first like fragments in a kaleidoscope. The fragments rapidly expanded and coalesced, the pressure receded, and Snape found himself standing at the edge of the weathered stone path leading up to his narrow two-story home, a place he'd inhabited since childhood, despite the unpleasant memories that still festered within its walls.

Snape glanced down at his new charge, who'd sank to his knees, arms wrapped tightly around his stomach. Snape took a step back, knowing that, given that this was his first time Apparating, the contents of the boy's stomach may well have been on their way up and out.

Fortunately, the upset caused by the trip only seemed to have caused dry heaves, and gradually the boy seemed to recover. He pushed himself back to his feet, shaking his head a little to himself, likely to clear away residual dizziness.

"All right there, Potter? Have we made it in one piece?"

Harry touched his face, his arms, his legs, every part of his body, as if he might discover that a whole chunk of himself was missing. "I—I believe so."

"Good." Snape drew his wand, glad to have the familiar instrument back in his hand. "This is my home. Since you will be staying here for a short length of time, let us get a few things straight." Snape flourished his wand, sending Harry's trunk flying from the sidewalk and up the stairs of the house into the boy's bedroom. "My Cloaking Charm extends precisely to the front of the walk, no further. You are not to set foot beyond it."

Snape made his way up the path. Harry tagged along beside him, craning his neck around to take everything in.

Not that there was much to see. The brick house was unremarkable in every way. The lawn had not been properly watered, and in the heat of late spring the clumps of weeds were beginning to shrivel and brown. To any observer, it was just another run-down home, indiscernible from any other in the vicinity.

They reached the front door. Snape paused at the threshold to turn stiffly to Harry. "I expect you will exercise the utmost care and respect while staying here," he pronounced slowly, fixing the boy with a meaningful glare.

Snape pushed the door open, revealing the dim interior of his home.

Snape had done much work on the place since officially assuming ownership of it, after his parents' passing and his graduation from Hogwarts. He'd restored it entirely, transforming it from a state of utter disrepair to one of perfect working order.

While his repairs had made the place functional and habitable, from replacement of the shattered and boarded up windows to new flooring to completely redoing the lighting, Snape had not done much to make the place more inviting.

It remained sparsely furnished, to a point that it was almost impersonal. Nothing adorned the walls—no photographs, no paintings. The few rugs covering the scrubbed wood floor were tan and simple, chosen for practicality rather than style. The drapes were mostly beige, thick enough to block out all light if necessary. And Snape's penchant for perfect order meant that every surface in the house was immaculate, completely devoid of even the most mundane of clutter.

"You are a guest in this home," Snape continued, striding forward into the entryway. He pointed to the curtains of the solitary window on the back wall; they parted to let in a scant bit more sunlight. "As such, you will keep your hands to yourself. If it is not yours, you will not touch it."

Harry traipsed after Snape, his eyes wide as he took in the details of his new home.

Snape swept into the kitchen, a modest space fitted with a gas stove and a small, off-white sink. The pipes were old but well-maintained, meaning that the sink functioned, even if it did take a few seconds for the water to reach the faucet head. A decades-old refrigerator hummed in the corner. Snape kept it stocked with the basics—milk, butter, eggs, sausages, an assortment of vegetables, a few blocks of cheese. The cupboards were filled similarly, with the basics and little else. Snape did not often waste time cooking elaborate meals.

The sole exception to the barrenness was the tall, elaborate spice rack that sat on the counter beside the stove. There, in row upon row, sat jars of every imaginable spice and seasoning, from salt to saffron. It was that spice rack that seemed to have caught Harry's eye.

Snape cleared his throat with a loud "ahem" to get Harry's attention.

The young boy's head snapped back to him.

"If you require anything from the pantry, you will ask. You are not to touch the stove or any of the appliances. And if you make a mess, you will clean it up—promptly and thoroughly."

"Yes, sir," Harry agreed solemnly.

The sincerity of the boy surprised Snape. At least the muggles had instilled him a sense of respect, he thought. It was something to work with, if nothing else.

Snape swept from the kitchen into his crowded sitting room, which was made to feel even smaller due to the fireplace that jutted out from the right wall, taking up nearly half the space. A solitary loveseat sat pushed back against the far wall, wedged between two narrow bookcases, which were overflowing with worn volumes. Snape himself rarely used the room; the books shelved here were general volumes on a variety of subjects, such as Bathilda Bagshot's A History of Magic and 1,001 Magical Herbs and Fungi, mostly leftover school books from Snape's years at Hogwarts. His own private collection, which was far more extensive and comprised of advanced titles, he kept in the study adjacent to his room.

"If you so desire, you may peruse this collection, so long as you do not damage these books in any way. That is, no rips, tears, stains, smudges, smears, blots, et cetera. They do not leave this room. I expect that, should you choose to borrow a volume, you will take the appropriate care in handling it." Snape glanced down at the young boy, who was squinting at the shelves, trying to make out titles. "Then again," he muttered, "not many of them have pictures…."

Snape continued to the right, to the slider door that opened from the sitting room out into the backyard, which was enclosed on three sides by a wrought-iron fence. It was not terribly large, though larger than most homes in the area had. It was spacious enough that, in the left half, Snape was able to maintain a small personal garden composed of various magical plants, complete with a tiny greenhouse for the less hardy species. Snape found it useful to keep a variety of plants with alchemical properties on hand, especially for his private research. To the right of the garden and greenhouse stood two scraggly trees, one an apple tree that produced only small, bitter, worm-riddled apples, and the other a twisted hawthorn tree that remained purely for aesthetic purposes—chiefly, that Snape had found no reason to remove it.

"If you venture out back, I advise you to steer clear of the plants, as there is no telling what irreparable damage they might cause you."

"Excuse me, sir," Harry chimed, "but don't you mean what damage I might cause to them?"

Snape's lips twitched up into a grim smile. "I do not."

Harry swallowed thickly and turned quickly from the door, as if merely looking at the wrong specimen might put him in harm's way.

Snape turned from the slider door and continued down the hall to the left, pausing before the room that had, at one point, been the home's master bedroom. He had long since converted it into a potions lab with an adjoining storeroom, and nearly always had three rare and difficult potions brewing within, most related to his latest sub-field of interest.

Snape did not bother to open the door to show the boy the interior. He had no intention of piquing his new charge's curiosity.

"My laboratory," Snape explained, "is strictly off limits, as is my private quarters and the basement. If I catch you attempting to slip into any of these rooms, you will be out of my home faster than you can say 'mea culpa'."

Harry's eyes flickered curiously to the closed door. "Of course, sir."

"Your room is up the stairs, along with your washroom. Your trunk is waiting for you. Go unpack and settle in."

"Yes, Mr. Snape."

Snape winced. There was something inherently wrong about that mode of address. He had never been a mister, and hearing the phrase now grated on his nerves. "Professor Snape," he corrected the boy. "I can only assume you have been slated to attend Hogwarts, meaning that in a few years' time you will be one of my students. So we might as well get into the habit now."

"Professor Snape," Harry repeated carefully, as if trying the words out on his tongue. "Excuse me, sir, but what do you teach?"

The bright, innocent gleam of curiosity in the boy's eyes was almost sickening.

"Potions," Snape replied curtly.

"Like, magic potions? Can you turn people into frogs, or make them fall in love like in the movies—?"

Magic potions. The kind of nonsensical redundancy that only James Potter's offspring could produce. Snape restrained himself from rolling his eyes, deciding that, so long as the boy was under his roof, he'd best start controlling himself, lest his eyes roll right out of their sockets.

"There are a wide variety of potions in this world, Potter, with a host of effects. For example, a few drops of a certain concoction might successfully transform a pestering young boy into, say, a gerbil, which I'm given to understand are quite quiet, require little care, and can be kept in small cages."

Snape watched with a twisted sort of satisfaction as the boy clamped his mouth shut and tipped his head down.

"We will eat in a few hours. Until then, I've work to do and am not to be disturbed. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir."

Snape watched the boy climb the stairs to the spare bedroom that had, at one time, been his own. He shook his head to himself, wondering not for the first time what he'd agreed to. He had a feeling that his headache was just beginning.

He'd promised Dumbledore that he would give this experiment two weeks, no more. Certainly he could keep the boy in line for that long. Certainly young Potter could not drive him mad in so short a time.

Two weeks and he would be done with this nonsense. No more fetching orphans from belligerent, insufferable muggles, no more explaining rudimentary concepts of magic and the wizarding world that any boy his age should know. He would be free again, left to his peace and quiet.

Snape could hardly wait.


	2. Home

Harry struggled to push his trunk back to the foot of the bed. His new bed. He couldn't help but grin at the thought. And this was his room, too, with ne tall, narrow window that overlooked the garden, a wooden dresser, a tall mirror, a bedside lamp…. It was a real room, still a bit smaller than even Dudley's second bedroom, but still worlds away from the tiny little cupboard space he'd called home for too many years.

Even if Snape seemed extremely strict, Harry instantly got the feeling that this would be better than the life he'd known with the Dursleys. There would be no Dudley to sit on him or take pleasure in tormenting him, no Uncle Vernon roaring threats at him, no Aunt Petunia to bury him with criticisms and punish him when Dudley invented lies to get Harry into trouble.

And Snape was a wizard. One of his own kind. The thought still made Harry giddy.

It had only been a few days since Harry had learned about the secret world of wizards and magic—and about his parents, who were a witch and wizard themselves. A strange old man with a long beard had turned up unexpectedly on the Dursley's doorstep, much to his uncle and aunt's dismay, in star-dusted periwinkle robes and a funny sort of cap. He'd introduced himself as Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry, though Harry thought he looked a lot like Merlin straight from all the movies about King Arthur.

It was Dumbledore who'd first showed Harry the existence of magic by a few small but impressive demonstrations. The man had produced beautiful shapes and colors from his wand, made objects fly, even heated the Dursley's teakettle with a simple tap of the wooden instrument. The displays had left Harry delighted, filled with an uplifting sense of wonderment.

Naturally, they'd had the opposite effect on the Dursleys. Uncle Vernon had tried to forbid the man from practicing "that rubbish" in his home, but Dumbledore had calmly ignored him. Eventually all three had retreated into the basement and locked the door, as if an air raid had suddenly commenced and they'd decided to hide themselves away until the danger passed.

Dumbledore had explained everything to Harry, including the string of inexplicable occurrences that had plagued him since his arrival at the Dursleys'. Dumbledore had told him all about his parents and their brave sacrifice, and the truth behind the lightning bolt scar on his forehead.

Dumbledore had been accompanied by a very large man with an enormous shaggy beard, who'd introduced himself as Hagrid, the gamekeeper at Hogwarts. He'd been almost too large to shoulder through the Dursley's front door, but he'd managed despite Vernon and Petunia's vehement protests. Hagrid had been jovial and bursting with enthusiasm, practically tripping over himself upon meeting Harry. He'd shaken the small boy's arm so vigorously that Harry had worried that the giant of a man might pull it right from its socket. Hagrid had remained mostly silent while Dumbledore had explained Harry's situation to him, though occasionally he'd cut into the situation with anecdotes about Harry's parents or tangents on particular subjects, especially once Dumbledore had begun discussing Harry's future enrollment at Hogwarts, which was, according to Hagrid, "the best wizarding school of all time, I'm tellin' yeh".

Harry wondered why he couldn't just go live with Hagrid. Dumbledore had said that there had been no one but Snape, who had known his parents and agreed to take him in. Harry sensed that, for some reason, Dumbledore wouldn't have approved of him taking up residence with the massive gamekeeper.

Living with Snape wouldn't be so bad, Harry thought. He wasn't warm or inviting, but at least he didn't seem to revile Harry as much as the Dursleys had. And he was a wizard, like Harry. Maybe he would even start to teach Harry some magic soon, like the trick with making Harry's trunk float. Making objects fly around would be a useful skill.

Harry glanced out the window down at the garden. He could see the strange rows of plants he'd never seen before—purple and red vines that seemed to be growing by the second, mushrooms that puffed out a constant olive-colored cloud, even a plant that resembled a Venus flytrap, except that Harry could have sworn that it was sleeping like a living creature. It seemed to even occasionally toss its head, as if some small sound had disturbed its slumber.

Snape hadn't forbidden him from exploring the garden, harry thought. He'd only warned him to be careful.

Harry gazed longingly down at the rows of magical specimen for a little longer, mired in indecision. So long as he was very careful, he decided, he could certainly go get a good look. If something looked too dangerous, he would just steer clear.

He hurried down the stairs, his mind spinning at the thought of the kind of garden someone like Snape might keep.

Harry paused in front of the locked door leading to Snape's laboratory. He briefly considered trying to get a peek inside, but Snape's stiff warning echoed in his head, and he immediately thought better of it. Best not to get into trouble if he could avoid it.

Especially not with an accomplished wizard who'd already hinted he was capable of turning Harry into a gerbil.

Harry crossed the sitting room, casting a furtive glance down the hall toward Snape's private rooms as a precautionary measure. Both doors at the end of the hall were still firmly shut, and there was no sign of movement from within. So Harry slipped out through the sliding door as quickly and quietly as possibly, making certain to close it tightly behind him.

Once he was out in the yard, Harry began closely examining the rows of fantastical plants.

The first specimen he stumbled across was a strange, coiled mass of what appeared to be green grass, wholly unremarkable but for its glossy emerald sheen. Harry approached the gardening enclosure carefully, keeping a wary eye on the flytrap plant, which he now suspected was only pretending to sleep.

But before Harry's fingers could even brush the grass, the plant reared up and twisted tightly into a thick band. Its bladed tips bent inward, creating sort of many-toothed mouth-like opening. The plant hissed evilly and snapped at Harry, who narrowly avoided being bitten by leaping back and out of the way.

The plant hissed one more time at harry before curling back up tightly, flattening its blades out once more, and seemingly falling dormant.

Harry dusted himself off, his heart still hammering in his chest. Maybe he wouldn't be getting too close to that one, he decided.

He scanned the garden for a less-dangerous species, passing over the fuming mushrooms, the prickly-looking vine creeping along the wall, and a squirming, tangled mass of tentacular feelers that undulated not too far from the flytrap plant.

At last his eyes fell on a planted that looked relatively harmless, a bulbous green thing that was just a little higher than Harry's waist and about as wide as he was. It was fatter at its base, and shaped rather like a pear sat upon a circle of thin, wiry leaves that protruded radially from underneath it. The surface of the body was irregular, covered in swollen nodules. The longer Harry stared at it, the more he was convinced that it was expanding and contracting in a steady rhythm.

Harry crept toward the strange plant, keeping an eye on all the other species in the vicinity in case they decided to attack. Centimeter by centimeter he made his way toward the strange, seething mass, a hand outstretched.

As soon as his fingers brushed against one of the nodes, the pocket erupted in a gush of thick, warm pus that stank like petroleum. It burbled up, coating Harry's exposed arm. As soon as it made contact with his skin it started to burn.

Harry cried out and scrambled back, trying to scrape the pus off of him. But that only ended up spreading the thick substance onto his other hand, and with it the burning sensation.

Harry stumbled out of the garden and back onto the lawn, where he began frantically wiping his arms off on the grass. That seemed to be more effective, as he was able to scrape most of it off, though ridding himself of the pus did not alleviate the burning.

He stared down at his forearms, which, to his alarm, had begun to bubble and break out into ugly, yellow-tinged boils. He started to panic. What if Snape was angry with him for disturbing his plant? What if he decided Harry had already caused him too much trouble? What if he was sent back to the Dursleys?

They'd probably already filled his broom cupboard. There would be no place for him to stay. He would have to sleep under the kitchen table, or out on their garden bench.

Harry pushed himself to his feet and tried to think. He still had a little time before he would have to see Snape again. Maybe the boils would disappear.

And if not… maybe, Harry thought, he could hide them well enough, at least until they started to get better. He really hoped they weren't serious. They certainly were painful enough.

Harry hurried back into the house and dashed up the stairs, closing himself into the small washroom. He immediately turned the cold water on. The tap stuck fast but after a little prying it let loose a decent gush of water, which allowed Harry to rinse the residual pus from his arms. The cold water did not, however, have any effect on the ugly, misshapen sores (although many of them did begin to ooze their own pus). Harry even tried scrubbing them with soap, but it proved too painful to continue with that. The boils were extremely sensitive to any kind of pressure, Harry found.

In the end, Harry dug up one of Dudley's larger hand-me-down sweaters, a hideous yellowish thing with several permanent stains, and pulled it on. Luckily his cousin was larger than him in almost every way, meaning that he had longer arms than Harry. So the cuffs of the sweater fell well past Harry's fingertips, covering the ghastly sores entirely.

After examining himself in the mirror, Harry retreated back to the bedroom and collapsed on the bed, groaning softly to himself. The boils were beginning to itch now, and he could hardly keep himself from scratching at them, which he knew would only send the pus all over his arms and possibly cause the boils to spread. And that was the last thing he needed.

Harry arranged himself as comfortably as he could on his bed (which was not all that difficult, since this bed was far more comfortable than the lumpy, worn-out mattress he'd had at the Dursleys). Once he'd found a good position, he closed his eyes, deciding that taking a short nap was the only thing to be done in the present situation.

XXXXXXX

Snape rapped the base of his wand impatiently against the table, glaring at the staircase. Of course the Potter boy would be slow to make his way down to supper. He didn't mind having people wait on him.

Snape pressed his wand to his throat again. "Potter!" he called. His magically amplified voice rang throughout the house, reverberating through the rafters.

Snape heard a door slam upstairs, the scuffle of footsteps, then the clamor of the boy barreling down the stairs.

Harry tripped into the kitchen, his eyes wide and nervous. He slipped into the seat across from Snape and scooted his chair up closer to the table. He was so small that the surface of the table was level with his shoulders.

Something was amiss, Snape observed, something different from before. Yes, he realized, now Potter wore an ugly mustard sweatshirt that was at least four sizes too big for him. The garment nearly swallowed the boy whole. Snape suspected there was a reason for the wardrobe change, and he intended to get to the bottom of it.

"Sorry I'm late," Harry mumbled into his empty bowl.

"What took so long? I assume you heard me the first time I called?"

"I was—sleeping."

The half-truth was obvious. Snape arched an eyebrow at the boy. "Sleeping? Is that right?"

Harry nodded vigorously.

"And was it a bit… drafty upstairs?" Snape continued sarcastically. "Or are you perhaps ill, Potter?"

The boy blushed. "No—"

Snape flicked his wand, forcing the boy's long sleeves up.

The sight of the boy's skin had him instinctively rolling his eyes. Layers and layers of oozing boils, and Snape could guess well enough where he'd gotten them.

"Decided to play with the bubotuber, did we?" Snape inquired coldly. "Was I not clear enough earlier? Or are you merely that stupid? Ah, but perhaps it is my fault for assuming that you would be a sensible boy, that I would not have to childproof every inch of my home."

"I'm sorry, sir," Harry choked out. "I don't think that I hurt it—"

"I believe I warned you about the garden just hours prior, did I not? Had that already escaped your tiny mind? Or is it simply that your skull is so thick that my words never penetrated it in the first place?"

The boy just sat there, his head hung, trembling slightly as Snape reprimanded him.

"Well?" Snape bit out. "Which is it, Mr. Potter? Or is it some combination of the two? Or better, is it a complete lack of respect for myself and the boundaries I have set for you? Because if that is the case, you can pack your things now."

"I just didn't think—"

"Yes, that is rather obvious. Exactly like your father. No restraint, no consideration for what trouble you might cause with your actions. So long as your curiosity is sated and you are happy in the end, you need not reflect on the potential damage you might cause. Well? Have you anything to say for yourself?"

Harry shook his head, his head tucked so far down that his chin rested against his chest.

Snape was hardly finished berating the boy. After all, he had acted incredibly foolishly. He would require a special draught to be rid of his newly-acquired affliction, which Snape guessed was rather painful. He had little patience for this brand of carelessness, and he dealt with it enough at Hogwarts. He wanted to be certain that he wouldn't be running after children in his spare time as well.

But as much as Snape would have loved to continue, Harry already looked completely downtrodden and on the verge of tears. And as much as the boy certainly deserved a long lecture, Snape found himself lacking the will to continue.

"Stay," Snape commanded tersely, rising from his seat. "And do not itch." He strode briskly out of the room, heading straight for his lab.

After locating the proper vial in his cupboards, Snape returned to the kitchen. He found the boy sniffling at the table, holding his arms out in front of him as if he expected them to be lopped off.

Snape drew up a chair beside the boy and set the bottle he'd retrieved on the table. First he drew his want and muttered, "Reducto", which caused the boils to shrink, leaving only a pattern of small open sores. Next he removed the stopper from the mixture he'd brought, a potent Cleansing Potion that he liked to keep on hand for emergencies. He carefully tilted the vial, dripping a few drops of the solution onto the boy's arm.

Harry winced slightly as the solution made contact with his wounds.

Lastly, Snape raised his wand again and murmured, "Episkey". The skin sealed up instantly, leaving Harry's arms perfectly healed. Satisfied, Snape stoppered the Cleansing Potion and returned to his seat.

"You are very lucky," he began, tucking his wand back into his robes, "that your injuries are not more serious." He glared stonily at the boy, who still had not lifted his head.

Harry rolled his sleeves back down, shrinking further into himself as he did so.

"Several of the plants I keep here could very easily permanently maim or even kill you. By comparison, the bubotuber is relatively innocuous…."

"I'm really very sorry, sir," Harry mumbled. "Please don't send me back."

The boy's plea caught Snape off guard, and for a few seconds he did not know how to respond. He could see genuine fear in the boy's eyes. Perhaps Dumbledore had not exaggerated about the Dursleys after all, he thought.

Well, at least the Potter boy was properly ashamed of himself. It was something, to be sure.

"Not tonight," he said at last.

The boy seemed to sag down in relief. "Thank you, sir—and I swear it won't happen again—"

"It will not," Snape agreed, "because you will spend the remainder of the evening in your room contemplating this… fiasco. And the backyard will be off limits until I've had a chance to close off the more dangerous areas, since you clearly cannot be trusted to leave them well enough alone. Furthermore, if there are any other incidents following this one, I will be contacting Dumbledore directly about placing you in another's care. Clear, Mr. Potter?"

Harry nodded vigorously, still looking a little ashamed, but more relieved than anything. He stood, head still bowed, pushed his chair in, and turned to leave.

"Where are you going?" Snape demanded.

Harry looked up at him, seemingly surprised. "To my room. You said—"

"Without your supper?"

Harry's eyes lit up with gratitude. He tripped back to the table, seized his bowl, and waited expectantly.

"This isn't a soup kitchen. Serve yourself."

Harry immediately ladled himself a bowlful of the pumpkin soup Snape had prepared. He grabbed his spoon and was about to duck out of the kitchen again, but Snape stopped him with a snap of his wand.

"No dishes in your room, Potter. You'll eat your meals here."

Remaining for the meal didn't seem to bother the boy at all. In fact, it almost seemed to set him further at ease.

They ate their meal in silence, Snape slowly and deliberately, and Harry with great gusto. Snape would have chalked his enthusiasm up to the fact that he was a growing boy. But when Harry had all but licked his bowl clean, he only stared longingly at the pot on the table. He didn't ask for seconds or help himself, only eyed the remaining food a little forlornly.

After a minute or so of the boy staring fixedly at the pot, Snape at last asked, "Would you like more?"

"Yes, please," Harry replied eagerly, and filled his bowl again. Again, his eyes were filled with a deep gratitude, as if Snape had given him a new toy to play with rather than telling him that he did not have to go hungry.

Snape felt a twinge of pity for the boy. He disliked the child, that was certain, and it was painful to have the boy under his roof. But he still found it inconceivable that a boy whose name so many witches and wizards knew, who so many hailed as a kind of savior, had gone hungry in a muggle home.

"There's no need to ask for second helpings. Take what you wish during meals."

Harry turned beet-red at the mention of seconds. "Sorry, sir. I just… I'm used to fighting my cousin for seconds. Well, my seconds, his fourths. I didn't usually win."

Again, Snape found himself speechless.

Just because his relatives were monstrous did not mean that the solution was for the boy to live here, Snape reminded himself. Dumbledore was perfectly capable of finding the boy a good, suitable home. He was just a sentimental fool sometimes with a fondness for meddling. Undoubtedly he intended to "cure" Snape of his melancholy and brooding by foisting this boy on him, the child of his enemy and his greatest love. He could pity the boy without feeling bound to take him under his wing.

After an awkward silence filled only with Harry's borderline slurping, Snape commanded, "Leave your dish in the sink when you've finished. And not a peep from you for the rest of the night, or I will find a suitable punishment to keep you occupied tomorrow." Snape sent his empty bowl hovering toward the sink and, with a final stern glare at Harry, swept out of the room.


	3. Imps and Flobberworms

Harry woke to something tugging lightly on his hair. He rubbed his eyes and turned onto his side only to find himself face to face with a thin, twig-like creature, which was perhaps five centimeters tall. It had a long, sharp nose and big, glittering black eyes. The creature had latched onto a tuft of Harry's jet-black hair and was tugging on it lightly, as if to test its strength.

Harry fumbled for his glasses on the bedside table. Once he'd slipped them on and could see more clearly, he turned his attention back to the strange little creature.

"Hullo," he said sleepily.

The creature ignored Harry, instead giving Harry's hair a particularly sharp tug. Harry cried out in protest and jerked sharply away, pushing himself into a sitting position on the bed.

"Hey!" he cried. "Knock it off!"

Undeterred, the little creature clambered up onto Harry's pillow, apparently determined to scale all the way back up to Harry's head. Harry, who was not too keen on having all the hair ripped from his scalp, reached down to scoop the small creature up.

The skinny little creature scampered out of his reach, shrieking and clicking and beating it's little fists against Harry's fingers as it struggled to get free.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Harry promised the creature softly.

Without warning, the creature sank its teeth deep into Harry's thumb. Startled, Harry dropped it back onto the mattress. The creature scampered across the bed and slid down Harry's crumpled blanket to the floor.

Still nursing his thumb, Harry clambered down off the bed and onto the wooden floor, intent on following the creature. He crawled after it as scurried toward the far wall, where Harry saw a small cadre of the creature's compatriots were gathered, waiting for him.

"Wait!" Harry cried, but the creature either didn't understand him or was ignoring him.

The other creatures chattered angrily at Harry, and once the most adventurous one had rejoined them, they all darted behind the dresser and out of sight.

Harry sucked on his bitten thumb for a moment, trying to alleviate some of the pain. The creature hadn't broken the skin, but it still hurt a great deal. After a moment, he decided to try to see where the funny little creatures had gone. Maybe they were just hiding behind the dresser….

The large wooden dresser was heavy. Harry tried with all his might to shift it out of the way, but only succeeded in rattling it a little. After a few more moments of giving it his all and failing to move the dresser even a discernible amount, Harry gave up, deciding that he would continue pursuing the little beasts after breakfast. His stomach was growling anyway, and he figured that Snape might be able to tell him more about the twiggy creatures.

Harry headed downstairs, wondering what time it was. He was used to his Aunt Petunia waking him up early now that school had ended for the year, usually with a long list of chores for him to do. But Harry had a sense that Snape had let him sleep in a considerable amount, given what he was accustomed to.

Snape was already sitting at the table in the kitchen, a cup of tea set in front of him and a small black book in the other. He wore the same tight-fitting black ensemble as yesterday, with the cuffs that ended well past his wrists and the high, stiff collar that looked to be almost choking. He glanced up at Harry as he entered into the kitchen, his expression surprised just enough to be slightly insulting.

"Late night, Potter?" Snape inquired mildly, peering over the top of the book at him.

Harry shook his head.

Snape tilted his head at a pile of scones on the table. "Help yourself. There's tea on the stove."

Harry didn't wait for further invitation. He piled three of the scones onto his plate along with a generous helping of the marmalade that Snape had set out and tucked into the meal.

Harry was too busy shoveling scones into his mouth to try to strike up a conversation with his new guardian, and Snape seem contented to sip his tea and read, so for a time they sat in a peaceful kind of silence.

When Harry had polished off his second scone and washed it down with a swallow of tea, he paused and tried to pluck up the courage to speak. Part of him was afraid that Snape was still furious with him for the episode yesterday, and Harry had learned from his Uncle Vernon that it was best to leave well enough alone until he was certain all anger at him had completely subsided. Uncomfortable silence was always preferable to shouting, especially when it was a purple-faced, spittle-projecting Vernon who was doing the bellowing.

But Snape had not raised his voice yesterday, Harry had reminded himself. If anything, his words had grown softer with his displeasure. And now there was hardly a trace of that irritation left.

"What are you reading?" Harry asked.

"A book," Snape replied without looking up.

"What's it about?"

Snape heaved a small sigh of irritation. "The principles governing potion viscosity and uniformity, and their correlation to potency in the finished substance."

Harry didn't really understand Snape's answer, and he didn't know what else to say. "Oh."

They lapsed back into silence for a while longer.

Then Harry asked, "What are we going to do today?"

"I," Snape emphasized, "will be continuing to draft lesson plans, as the summer holiday is short and the beginning of term is fast approaching. You will be finding ways to keep yourself occupied and out of my way. Unless, of course, you are incapable of entertaining yourself, in which case I would be only too happy to find a list of tasks for you to complete."

Harry's thoughts immediately leapt back to the little creatures who'd awoken him. If he could just find out where they'd gone, or perhaps lure them back out….

His eyes drifted back to his remaining scone.

"I'll find something to do," Harry promised. He snatched the scone from his plate and folded it up carefully in a cloth napkin, already forming a plan in his mind.

"Food stays in the kitchen," Snape told him, eying Harry's neatly wrapped scone disdainfully. "I don't need your crumbs attracting all manner of pests to the house."

Were the little creatures up in his room pests? Harry wondered. They were far too fascinating to him to be anything but a nuisance. He was already making plans for befriending them and learning more about where they'd come from. He suspected that they had to live in the wall space or in the dresser, like mice.

But for someone who'd grown up in a world of magic and spells and all manner of incredible things, Harry supposed that a gaggle of little stick men running about the house, crawling all over you and pulling your hair, might be seen as a pest in need of eradication.

Which made Harry hesitate when it came to asking questions about what the creatures might be. What if Snape insisted on clearing them out? Harry didn't mind sharing his room with them, and he hated the idea that he might not get the chance to fully investigate them.

"What kind of pests, sir?"

"Ants. Beetles. Roaches. Mice. If you wish to eat later, set it aside on the counter there. But you will not starve here, Potter. I'm not so sadistic."

Snape would likely disappear into his lab or his room, Harry reasoned. He could just sneak back down later. So Harry left the scone wrapped on the table and carried his empty teacup over to the sink, where he rinsed it out and dried it carefully, taking twice as long as he needed. It was a force of habit instilled by Aunt Petunia's neuroticism and mistrust of Harry. He'd dropped one of her saucers once, ruining the set. Harry had been locked in the cupboard for a week for that offense.

"Excuse me, er… Professor? Where does this go?"

Nose still buried in his book, Snape snapped his wand carelessly back at the teacup and saucer, which drifted up and stacked themselves neatly in an overhead cupboard far beyond Harry's reach.

"I'm going to go back to my room—"

"You know where you are permitted to go," Snape cut him off, flipping the page, "and where you are not. If you have need of anything, I will be in the lab. Be certain to knock."

"Of course, sir."

Harry retreated back upstairs again. While he waited for Snape to finish his breakfast, he continued to poke around the room, searching for cracks and crevices for any sign of the stick-men. He crawled along the floor, peering under the bed, the dresser, the nightstand—and found nothing but dust, thought he could have sworn that at one point he'd caught sight of a pair of glittering black eyes. He even tried calling out to them, making more promises that he meant them no harm, all to no avail.

Eventually, after Harry had judged that a suitable amount of time had passed, he brushed himself off and slipped down the stairs back into the kitchen. He was certain to creep up along the wall so that he could peer inside first and make sure that Snape was gone. Finding it empty, he proceeded to tiptoe in. After casting another furtive glance around, he snatched the scone and rushed back upstairs.

Once Harry reached his bedroom, he made certain to close the door tightly behind him, then immediately dropped to all fours and peered under the dresser. He carefully broke a small piece of scone off, making sure that it didn't crumble everywhere, and pushed the morsel into the space beneath the dresser.

To Harry's delight, he could hear a scrabbling and faint chattering. Three of the creatures crawled into sight, thought Harry could barely make them out in the shadows beneath the dresser. One seized the crumb of scone and sniffed at it before taking a nibble. It clicked in delight to its comrades, who scuttled forward toward Harry.

Harry grinned, pleased that his plan had worked, and went to break off another piece of scone.

But the scrawny little creatures were devilishly quick, and before he knew it they had already reached what remained of the scone, lifted it up, and skittered off with it. It apparently gave them no trouble, despite being well over twice their size.

Instinctively, Harry tried to pursue them. He flattened himself against the floor and reached a hand beneath, sweeping it in the space, grasping blindly for one of the creatures.

"Come—here!" he grunted.

A sharp pain shot up through the left side of his hand. Harry yelped and scrambled back, knocking his head against the dresser as he did so.

"Ow," he muttered, rubbing the sore spot. Once the dull throbbing had subsided, he peered back under the dresser, only to find that a whole host of the creatures was gathering there, all of them muttering and clicking unhappily.

One of them seemed to be gesturing angrily toward Harry; it jabbed its long, thin, pointed fingers toward him, chittering in a high-pitched voice. Harry watched, transfixed, as the little creatures swarmed out from beneath the dresser, half of them beelining for him, the other half scaling up the dresser.

Harry propelled himself backward, trying to get away from the twenty or so creatures pursuing him, but they were far too agile. In just seconds they'd latched onto parts of his trousers and shirt and were already beginning to ascend toward his face. Harry tried to brush them off, but they nimbly avoided him, and one even dug its teeth into his arm as a means of resisting being batted away.

But the creatures climbing all over him were the least of his worries. The other half of the small army had managed to pull the drawers of the dresser open and now, with the aid of a small contingent of their comrades stationed at one of the dresser's four legs, were trying to rock the whole thing and presumably topple it. In a feat that looked to defy physics, the group at the far left leg seemed to be lifting the dresser up and tilting it forward, building up momentum.

Harry redoubled his efforts to rid himself of the little stick men, but there were too many of them and they were too adept at avoiding his efforts.

Suddenly, the dresser pitched forward and crashed to the floor with a deafening thud. Luckily, Harry had retreated far enough to avoid being crushed beneath it.

A shrill, triumphant cry went up amongst the creatures.

There was a loud pop in the hall before the door burst inward, revealing a dour-faced Snape. His sharp glare immediately landed on Harry and the good dozen or so creatures that were still hanging from him.

"Immobulus," he growled. There was a flash of blue-white light, and suddenly all of the creatures were stiff as statues, though their glittering eyes still darted back and forth frantically.

"Good lord," Snape said through gritted teeth, "can I not trust you to be alone? And what did I tell you about food in the room?" He indicated a tiny pile of fine crumbs that was so small it was a wonder he'd seen it at all. "Is it a great pleasure, Potter, to defy me at every turn?"

"I was going to clean it up—"

"You were feeding them. Don't think that is not apparent. As if imps require any encouragement…."

"Imps?" Harry inquired.

Snape gestured with his want to a few of the stunned creatures. "Yes, imps. Some kind of house imp, by the looks of it, though magizoology was never my strong suit…. I'd no idea there was an infestation. You should have said something first thing."

"I didn't know they were dangerous—"

"You didn't know that they weren't dangerous, either. But back to my original question. Why is it that you couldn't heed simple instructions?"

Harry looked down at his feet, unable to meet Snape's eyes. "I just thought… you know, that I could play with them—"

"They are not toys. They, like their pixy cousins, are troublesome pests. Any child would know better than to try to befriend such capricious little monsters…."

"I—I didn't know, sir," Harry stammered. It was beginning to dawn on him that he'd defied Snape and caused trouble twice now. And Snape had vowed that he would ship him off if there were any more incidents….

"I suppose you didn't," Snape grumbled, "living with muggles…. Still. You couldn't content yourself with your playthings?"

"I don't have any."

Snape muttered something under his breath. He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes tightly, clearly trying to collect himself. "I assume you haven't been hurt, since there are no tears?"

Harry shook his head into the ground. "I'm fine."

Snape drew a deep breath and, letting his hand fall back to his side, opened his eyes. He waved his wand carelessly at Harry, causing all the still-frozen imps to clatter to the floor like a set of plastic figurines. "Wait for me downstairs while I straighten this up and attend to this infestation."

"You're not going to—to kill them, are you—"

Snape heaved an impatient sigh. "No. I will remove them to the yard and Confound them so they won't wander back into the house and nest again."

That set Harry's mind at ease a little. "Professor, I didn't think it would cause this much trouble, honest. I'm really, really sorry, and I swear—"

"Silence. As disinclined as I am to believe your sincerity, I will make an allowance for your lack of understanding, so long as you know that, from here on out, I expect full, unequivocal obedience. Do you know what unequivocal means, Mr. Potter?"

Harry shook his head again.

Snape leaned down close, lowering his voice to a dangerous whisper. "It means that when I say 'jump', you will ask me, 'how high?'. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then go."

Harry was only too happy that he wouldn't be sent back to the Dursleys. Really, he thought, he was going to have to be more careful. Things had a tendency to get out of hand much more quickly than in the non-wizarding world.

XXXXXX

The damage in the room really was minimal. It was luck that the boy hadn't been crushed beneath the dresser. House imps were not so dangerous to fully grown wizards, but certain species were known to carry off children or play extremely cruel jokes on them. At least, Snape thought, it hadn't been pixies. They might have carried him off and left him in a tree somewhere.

He could hardly blame the boy, as much as he wanted to. Sneaking food into his room was an act of disobedience, but it was hardly an offense that merited casting the child out.

Snape was tempted for a moment to write to Dumbledore and complain that the boy was too much of a menace, and that his presence was disruptive. But even as he'd briefly considered such a plan of action, the image of Dumbledore's penetrating eyes had leapt to mind, filled with disappointment and accusation. Snape had, after all, given his word to protect the boy. If he could not handle caring for one child, James Potter's son or not, what could he say about the strength of his commitment to that promise?

That didn't mean that he didn't intend to teach the boy a lesson.

After righting the dresser and gathering the entirety of the stunned imps—almost fifty in all, which was an impressive number—in a spare shopping bag, Snape went to seek out his young ward.

He found Harry sitting quietly on the love seat, body bowed over his knees and his hands clasped tightly in front of him. It seemed that he, too, was aware that there would be consequences for his disobedience.

"Follow me," Snape commanded brusquely, heading outside into the backyard.

Harry trotted along behind him, still looking fairly kowtowed for the time being.

Snape led him to the far back corner of the yard where there stood a four by five foot enclosure. Inside were a good dozen flobberworms, long brown creatures of about ten inches that continually produced a foul coat of mucus. Snape kept them because the mucus served as a versatile potion thickener, and tended to work best, he found, when freshest. But the enclosure was small for the number of flobberworms he kept, meaning that the mucus secretions tended to build up and needed to be scraped out every few weeks or so.

"They're… worms?" Harry asked, though for once his tone wasn't one of wonderment. He sounded rather disappointed.

"Flobberworms. A fascinating magical creature for you to play with." Snape gestured to the rusted metal spatula that he left beside the cage for cleanings. "Since you cannot stay out of trouble on your own, you can spend the rest of the morning de-sliming their pen."

"Do they bite?" Harry asked warily.

"They are toothless, and before you ask, no, the mucus is not toxic. No need for gloves."

Harry stared blankly at the worms, his lip wrinkled slightly in disgust.

"Well?" Snape demanded. "Get to it. If you work quickly, you may finish in time for lunch."

Harry snapped out of his daze and bobbed his head at Snape before retrieving the scraping tool.

Satisfied that the boy was taking his chore seriously, Snape headed back into the house.

He would have to find the boy something to play with. It wasn't a question of kindness; no, it was a matter of damage control. There was no telling what destruction Potter's next little misadventure might cause.

He doubted he had anything in the house that would suffice. Even in the attic… and he had no interest in venturing up there and sifting through the clutter, not to mention all the memories. There was a reason he kept that area of the house shut off.

Perhaps, he thought, it would be possible to work a simple enchantment on an ordinary object as a provisional measure, something that would hold the boy's attention until they could make a trip into town somewhere. Perhaps Diagon Alley, he thought. He was running low on stock anyway, and he preferred the supplier there to the ones he'd used elsewhere, especially Hogsmeade. Though an outing with the Potter boy was doubtless going to be a migraine in and of itself.

Snape returned to his study and the stacks of notes upon his desk. He was nearly finished with the syllabus for his third year potions class, though he was starting to doubt, as he always did, that the reading and classwork would be too much for his students. Not that what he had prepared was unreasonable, of course. It just seemed that the students themselves were growing increasingly incapable of rising to the challenges presented to them.

His eyes swept over his desk, as if he would find some object there that could serve as a plaything. But there was nothing save a few well-worn copies of potions manuals, his notes, a pot of ink and quill, and a stack of fresh parchment.

Parchment. It was better than nothing. If only he'd been a touch more talented with Transfiguration… but that had never been his strong suit. No, his specialty had been curses, hexes, jinxes, and the art of potion-making. And Dumbledore would likely not appreciate him giving the Potter boy a hexed object as a toy, or a heavy sleeping draught to sedate him.

Snape took a moment to pluck the spell from his memory, then, the tip of his wand against the blank parchment, muttered, "Animembranus." A shower of silver sparks fell down onto the parchment and soaked into it, like ink. The parchment crumpled into a ball, folding into itself and shifting gradually until it had reformed as a small dragon, complete with ink eyes and a snout.

The parchment-creature blinked its eyes up at Snape, shuffled its wings a little, then tipped its head back and let out a little roar.

Snape smirked. He couldn't help but feel a little pleased with himself. Let Potter chase after that for a while, he thought. "Occideri membranus," he pronounced, tapping the dragon once more. It stilled in his palm, its eyes fading away again.

Snape set it gently beside his ink and settled back into his chair. Now, where had he left off? Ah, yes, developing an essay topic on the properties of brimstone. Something to discourage students from regurgitating the textbook in its entirety, perhaps even encourage a handful of them to make use of the library….

XXXXX

Harry was proud of himself for not gagging. The sheer amount of mucus layered in the cage was astounding, and it seemed that, as hard as he tried to chip away at it, there was still more of the wretched substance beneath. This, he decided, was worse than any task that his Aunt Petunia had given him.

He tried his best to work diligently, but it was not easy labor, and between the heat of the summer sun and the ache of his arms, he found himself slowing more and more as the morning wore on. He started having to take small breaks every fifteen minutes or so just to rest his tired arms.

Thankfully, the flobberworms were slow-moving and easy to shift out of the way—though they were not the most pleasant of things to touch.

Harry only had one small corner of the pen left to do when Snape at last returned to check on him.

His eyes swept over the cage once, flickered to appraise Harry, then roved back over the cage a second time. "Have we learned our lesson?" Snape asked coolly.

"I promise to listen from now on—"

"Good enough, then. But know that I can think of plenty of other equally unpleasant tasks for you to perform, should we have this kind of misunderstanding again. Now go get washed up."

Harry was just glad that he wasn't going to have to finish. He hurried upstairs into the washroom and began scrubbing down, making sure that he removed every last fleck of the disgusting mucus. Idly, he wondered if finding himself coated in odd substances was just part and parcel of the wizarding life.

There was a sandwich waiting for him on the table by the time he made it back down into the kitchen. Snape sat in his usual spot, a newspaper open before him.

Harry stopped in his tracks. The pictures—one of a smoking witch in front of an overturned cauldron, another of two figures zooming around in the air on broomsticks—were moving!

"How are they doing that?" he blurted out.

Snape looked up at him, startled. "I'm afraid you'll have to be more articulate than that if you want an answer."

"The—the pictures—they're moving around—"

Snape's face wrinkled in confusion as he turned the paper to glance at the front page. "Of course they're…." But he stopped short and rolled his eyes. "Our photos are a bit more interesting than your muggle photos."

"That's incredible," Harry whispered. He tried to make out the name of the newspaper—the Daily Prophet. "Is it all pictures, then?"

"If developed using the proper solution."

Harry sensed that Snape was getting sick of all the questions, so he turned his attention to his sandwich. He was starving anyway, and thirsty. It was a good thing that Snape had also set out a large glass of water for him.

"Is there any interesting news today?" Harry asked after a few minutes through a thick mouthful of sandwich.

Snape's lip curled back, likely from the few sandwich crumbs spraying forth from Harry's mouth. "Mouth shut while you're chewing."

Harry swallowed and mumbled, "Sorry."

They lapsed back into silence, and it became apparent to Harry that Snape wasn't about to answer his initial question.

"Are there any other children around here?"

Snape exhaled heavily. "I'm certain there are a few, though I don't go around door to door making a head-count."

"Children like us? Or muggles?"

"There are few like us who live in this neighborhood." Snape spoke as if he regretted that he and Harry were lumped together in the same category.

Harry couldn't help but feel a bit stung by Snape's tone. Maybe he was even less welcome here than he'd originally thought. The prospect was disheartening.

It had been silly of him to think that anything had to be better than the Dursleys. Though still, he thought, he hadn't been locked up yet. Still, he wished that he hadn't been so reckless during his first day in his new home. Maybe Snape wouldn't have been so fed up with him if he hadn't caused so much trouble.

He ate the rest of his meal without venturing another word, barely tasting the food as it slid down. Twice he had to sip a little water just to swallow past the tight lump forming in his throat.

As he was depositing his plate and glass in the sink and preparing to go hide in his room, Harry heard the flutter of paper behind him. At first he thought it was simply Snape shaking out his newspaper, thought the rustling was curiously soft.

He turned to find a little dragon that looked to be made of paper sitting on the table, sniffing delicately at a stray breadcrumb.

Snape folded up his paper and pushed his dish aside. "Something to keep you amused," he said simply. "Would it be too much to assume that this will keep you out of mischief for the remainder of the day?"

Harry couldn't take his eyes off of the little dragon. "Yes," he agreed. "I mean—no, I'll—is it a real dragon?"

"It's a simple charm, but it should exhibit most of the same mannerisms—albeit, rather tamer. Be careful not to rip it or you'll damage the enchantment."

Harry couldn't resist. He scooped the creature up and cradled it delicately in his hands. It lifted its head toward him and blinked its inky eyes, then made a soft keening sound. Without warning, it crouched, wriggled its bottom like a playful cat, and sprang into the air, flapping its elegant paper wings. With a few steady beats it had soared off into the entry hall and up the stairs.

Harry turned to Snape, a wide grin splitting his face. "Thank you—this is amazing!" And with that he tore after the dragon, still smiling from ear to ear.


	4. In Diagon Alley

Snape stared down his young ward, searching for any sign of mischief.

It had been an unusually quiet few days, especially after Snape had realized how ridiculously easy it was to keep his charge entertained.

He'd continued to re-enchant the small paper dragon, which delighted the boy far too much. He'd caught glimpses of Potter chasing the small creature around the back yard,

He'd dug up an old wizard chess set—presumably inherited from his mother's side, though he'd never seen her touch the game, as she'd been far more fond of Gobstones in her younger days. He'd let the pieces themselves try to teach Harry the rules and strategy. He'd sensed that Harry had been overwhelmed at first by all the conflicting advice he'd received from the small stone figures, most of whom were more keen on preserving their own lives than winning the game overall, but the boy seemed to have picked up on things relatively quickly, and for two days straight spent most of his day bent over the board, testing his skills against the collective wit of the opposing color.

It had been a welcome break. Snape had even caught himself thinking that, just maybe, Potter's presence would not be such a nuisance after all. He still had a tendency to interrogate Snape on any subject that caught his fancy, from what Hogwarts was like to why wizards maintained a different dress from muggles. Though, to the boy's credit, he'd adapted, and learned only to ask one or two questions at a time rather than inundate Snape with a hundred all at once.

But, truth be told, the balance had been almost tolerable. Snape had been able to devote as much time as necessary to his research and lesson-planning. And after nearly being crushed to death beneath the dresser, the Potter boy had become especially respectful and deferent, qualities that Snape certainly appreciated.

But now they were about to venture out into public—into the wizarding portion of it, no less—and Snape wanted to be absolutely certain that Potter would not forget himself and make a scene.

"What are the rules, Potter?" Snape demanded softly. They'd been over this two other times already, but there was no such thing as too much caution. Not when James Potter's blood ran in the boy's veins.

Harry's eyes were locked on his shoes. "Stay in your sight—"

"Eyes up here."

Harry reluctantly lifted his eyes up. Snape saw nervousness in their green depths.

Good, he thought. The boy was taking him seriously.

Though he couldn't help but feel a small twinge of guilt at the genuine fear he saw there. After all, he hadn't beaten the boy, had he? Just had him do a little manual labor. But that was doubtless too much for the great Harry Potter….

"I'm to stay in your sight," Harry recited dutifully. "And keep my hands to myself. Don't talk to strangers. Mind my manners."

Snape watched as the boy struggled to remember if there was anything else. "And?" he prompted impatiently.

"And… and….."

"And you will not cause any trouble," Snape pronounced, unable to keep the note of disdain from his voice. "Because if you do, you will pay dearly for it. Do we have an understanding?"

Harry nodded vehemently, his gaze drifting downward again. "Yes, sir."

Snape held out his arm to Harry. "Come along, then."

Harry latched onto Snape's arm, clinging quite tightly to him. He did not seem to be looking forward to the experience of Apparition, and Snape could hardly blame him. He would have simply planned to make the journey through the Floo Network, but he doubted that would be much easier. Besides, he preferred a method of travel that did not separate him from the Potter boy at all. So Side-Along Apparition it would have to be.

Snape checked once more to make certain that he had his small bag of gold. He would eventually have to stop by Gringotts, he thought. The stash of wizard money he kept at the house was growing small. He glanced over at the boy, wondering if he should contact Dumbledore about the boy's own vault. Not that he would need access to the entirety of his inheritance anytime soon. Likely he would blow it all, given the chance, on something idiotic and useless, like a racing broom that he would not even be permitted to fly.

Not that he relished having to spend any amount of his meager salary on playthings for the boy. But circumstances were far from dire. It was hardly worth bringing it up, he decided.

He fixed the image of Flourish and Blott's in his mind, deciding that it would be a suitable place to start. He'd ordered a few rare volumes and figured now would be the best time to check in on them.

The familiar immense pressure overcame him, and in seconds his dreary sitting room was gone. Suddenly they stood in the middle of a very busy cobblestone street, where witches and wizards in robes and pointed hats flowed by on each side, chattering and carrying parcels and shopping bags.

Snape spared a cursory glance for the Potter boy, who, though he still looked rather pale, appeared to have fared significantly better during this journey than he had the last time. He was craning his neck around, trying to take the entirety of the scene in. His jaw hung open as he turned from store to store, wide-eyed.

"Have you finished gawking?" Snape demanded coolly. "I have a long list of errands to run."

Harry snapped his jaw shut and turned his attention immediately to Snape. "It's just—there are so many of them—of us. And—and all the shops—"

"Yes, rather astounding," Snape muttered absently. He was already planning his route out in his mind. Flourish and Blotts, then straight to the apothecary. He would need high-grade crystal flasks for his latest concoction, a prototype of a powerful restorative potion that he strongly suspected was quite volatile in its current form. And he was running low on several of his staples. And beyond that, he supposed a visit to one of Diagon Alley's many novelty shops was in order to find something to occupy the Potter boy's time.

"Quality Quidditch Supplies," Harry read to himself, inspecting a shop down the way. "Sir, what is quidditch?"

"A wizarding game."

"What kind of game?" Harry asked, still staring, transfixed, at the sign. Snape had to jerk him sharply out of the way of a portly little man in plum-colored robes, who was struggling to carry a cage that was almost as big as he was filled with chattering miniature monkeys.

"Not the time, Potter," Snape barked impatiently. "Pay attention to your surroundings." He took the boy by the wrist and dragged him over to the front of the bookstore.

"Now," Snape began again, but he was interrupted by a woman's shrill cry.

"Oh my goodness! Is that—is he—"

"It's Harry Potter!" a tall, older wizard with a scraggly grey beard murmured. "Bless it, it's him, isn't it?"

Before Snape could get a word out, a small throng of witches and wizards had gathered around Harry, all of them trying to get their chance to shake his hand or touch his hair or get a good look at his scar.

Snape rolled his eyes. Well, he thought irritably, best to let the famous Harry Potter have his moment. As if the boy's head wouldn't be big enough already, given his genetic predisposition. No, now every witch and wizard old enough to remember the darker days would be clamoring to pat his back and tell him how special he was.

"Excuse me," came Harry's hesitant voice from somewhere in the small crowd. "Excuse me, but I'm here with—"

The bearded old wizard turned back, glancing at Snape in surprise. "Oh my. You're that fellow… you teach at Hogwarts? Arithmancy—no, potions, is that right?"

Snape forced a stiff smile. "I do."

Harry had managed to free himself from the entanglement of all his admirers, most of whom had begun gushing to each other about how phenomenal it was to meet him in person. He tripped back over to Snape's side, and to Snape's great surprise, the boy's face was beet red. He wasn't smiling, either. In fact, his eyes were almost pleading.

"Archeron Raspusis," the old wizard introduced himself, though more to Harry than to Snape. "Such an honor to meet you, Mr. Potter, truly."

Harry looked at the ground. "Er… thanks. And you. Nice to meet you too."

"Getting an early start on that education, eh?" Archeron chuckled amiably. "Private potions tutoring during the summer?"

"I am serving as Mr. Potter's temporary guardian, until other arrangements can be made," Snape informed him smoothly. "Not that the inner workings of Mr. Potter's private life are in any way the concerns of the general public…."

The soft, dangerous edge that had crept into Snape's tone did its work. Archeron's affable mood dampened immediately, and he even shuffled back a step. "Of course," he conceded. "Just wanted to thank you, Mr. Potter. Such an honor." And with that Archeron bowed out.

The other members of the small crowd, who had watched the exchange, seemed to take the same cue. Most of them bade him quick farewells and hurried on their way.

"Thanks," Harry mumbled once the throng had cleared.

Snape couldn't help but arch a puzzled eyebrow. "For what?"

"For getting rid of them."

Snape's lip curled in an involuntary sneer. "Ah, not too fond of your admirers?" he inquired saccharinely. "It must be terrible to be so… loved."

Harry blushed again. "I didn't even do anything. Dumbledore told me what happened, why everyone…." He shook his head to himself. "I was just there."

The boy's answer surprised Snape. He had no real response, since he wholeheartedly agreed with the Potter boy's analysis.

"Many do not see it that way," Snape said at last. "You are the Boy Who Lived to many of them, and whether that title should mean anything or not, everyone in our world knows your name. So you'd best get used to the attention."

Harry nodded to the ground.

"Come. At this rate we'll be out all day…."

XXXXX

The inside of Flourish and Blott's was far grander than Harry could have imagined. The bookstore was vast, almost impossibly so, with shelves upon shelves of books of every size, shape, and color. Titles floated down from the shelves at the behest of shop assistants, who used their wands to guide the volumes into the hands of waiting customers. Up at the counter, a clerk was showing a mother and two children about Harry's age a magnificent pop-up book of sorts—except instead of two-dimensional cut-outs, an entire miniature forest grew between the pages, complete with tiny animals.

Harry was beginning to feel that he was never going to get enough of this new world—his world, he thought. Every time he thought he'd seen the most astonishing thing he'd ever lay eyes on, some fresh novelty would stun him yet again. This outing alone had already been overwhelming.

"I've a few things to check on," Snape informed him, glaring at him from the corner of his eye. "If you can mind yourself, you may browse the shelves while you wait. I will meet you at the counter presently."

"Of course," Harry agreed quickly. He'd already been eying a particularly garish corner of the shop, where the titles he could make out seemed fairly promising.

Snape gave him one final look of warning before stalking off to the counter.

Harry made his way over to the corner, still twisting his head this way and that, trying not to miss a single detail.

The Dursleys had hardly ever taken him out in public, and even then it had only been on brief shopping trips, or to the toy store so that Dudley could get the latest gadget he'd been throwing a tantrum over. Uncle Vernon had always taken Harry aside and warned him that he would beat him within an inch of his life if there was any "funny business". Most of the time they just left Harry locked in the car, but even when he'd been permitted to venture into the store, he'd kept to himself in the corner, afraid to even look at anything.

The one time he had picked up a toy—a model helicopter—Uncle Vernon had dragged him out of the store so rapidly that the store clerk had rushed out after them, thinking that Uncle Vernon had apprehended a would-be shoplifter rather than his own nephew. The trip home had been consisted of a long, bellowing rant about how Harry was blessed to have been taken in by them, and how dare he feel so entitled as to think that, on top of all the care they had provided for him, they would be buying him whatever expensive toy his heart desired. And then he'd been shut up in his cupboard for the rest of the week, with no meals in the evenings, to teach him "gratitude" for what he took for granted.

The freedom Harry felt now—even accompanied by Snape—was exhilarating.

Harry began browsing the titles on the shelves eagerly. He felt a small jolt of pleasure when he realized what section he'd been inadvertently drawn to after reading the first few titles. The Official Guide to the Quidditch World Cup. The Beater's Bible. Quidditch Through the Ages. Harry took up the last title, figuring it had to be as good a place as any to start.

He sank down onto the ground and spread the book out in his lap, sinking easily into the first chapter, The Evolution of the Flying Broomstick. He couldn't help but grin from ear to ear as he read Kennilworthy Whisp's analysis of the invention of the magic broomstick, which he would have found fantastically absurd just weeks before. Now, it was just fantastic.

It was no wonder that he lost track of the time. He was quite a ways into the second chapter by the time he became aware of the shadow hanging over him.

He snapped the book shut and leapt to his feet, only to find Snape, sour-faced, staring at him, arms folded over his chest.

"No, please," he drawled. "Don't let me inconvenience you."

"Sorry, I just—"

"What's this?" Snape snatched the title from Harry's hands before he could react. He examined the cover briefly and then muttered, rolling his eyes, "Of course."

Harry tried to take the book back. "I think it just goes on the shelf here—"

But Snape had already turned and strode off, the book still in hand. Harry rushed after him, unsure of what was going on.

Until they reached the counter, and Snape threw it down in front of the clerk along with one thin black volume and another small, thick green tome bound up with a thin leather band. Neither of Snape's books had visible titles.

"That'll be four galleons, eleven sickles, and three knuts," the clerk, a blonde witch with rosy dimples, told Snape cheerfully.

Snape dumped a handful of strange coins onto the table, which the clerk counted and changed for him. Snape pocketed his remaining coins and grabbed the three books, then began making his way toward the exit.

As Harry caught up to him, falling into pace beside him, Snape passed him the copy of Quidditch Through the Ages.

"Thank you," Harry beamed. It had to have been the first time anyone had gotten him a gift—a real gift, not a Dursley gift, like his Uncle Vernon's old socks. He didn't know what else to say, so he repeated himself stupidly. "Thank you—"

"It will spare me several hours of inane questions and, I assume, it will keep you quiet and well-mannered for a few days. A worthwhile investment."

The words were cold, dismissive, and, if Harry was being honest, a little insulting. But Harry chose to believe that this was Snape's way of saying "you're welcome". So Harry clutched his new treasure to his chest, resolving to take especially good care of it for the remainder of the trip.

They continued to push their way through the bustling street. Harry made sure to match Snape's hurried pace, not wanting to lose sight of him. The last thing he wanted now was to upset the man.

Though he couldn't help but slow down a little as they passed by a magnificent ice cream parlor. Several wizarding families were crowded around tables outside, devouring towering cones and the largest, most elaborate sundaes Harry had ever seen. A smiling, middle-aged man with shaggy brown hair and a beard was carrying dishes out to a family waiting at a café table. He was dressed rather whimsically, even for the wizarding crowd, in a bright orange shirt with a ruffled neckline, with a shiny purple vest. A green polka-dotted pocket square stuck out rather conspicuously from his right breast.

Despite his resolution to stick close to Snape, Harry found himself slowing to a halt as he watched the man serve the wizarding family.

The man looked up from the table and his eyes locked with Harry. He froze for a moment, his eyes going wide.

And then he was hustling away from the table, his lips curving into a wide, friendly grin. "Well, if it isn't Harry Potter," the man greeted him, offering out his hand. "Florean Fortescue, proprietor of this fine establishment. I knew your father. And your mother, though your father was a more loyal customer, I dare say."

Harry shifted his new book carefully to his left arm and shook the man's hand. "It's nice to meet you, but I—"

"Potter!"

Harry dropped Florean's hand and spun around to find Snape just feet away, glowering at him.

"Professor!" Florean smiled. "My apologies. Should have realized that young Mr. Potter wouldn't be running about unaccompanied."

Snape's lips pursed in a sour expression. "I don't believe we've met."

"Florean Fortescue. Albus mentioned that his potions master had been helping out with Mr. Potter here—he's an old friend, you see. Drops by quite often, whenever he has business in London. Ah, but his sweet tooth is hardly a secret, now, is it?"

"I wasn't aware that Albus Dumbledore engaged in such idle gossip," Snape commented coldly.

Florean didn't seem to be the least bit affected by Snape's nettling words. He only laughed a little. "Well, I pester the man. He doesn't let much slip, just bits here and there. Not nearly as bad as the ministry, you know. Bunch of chattering magpies, they are. I knew Harry had been moved before Dumbledore even breathed a word."

Snape seemed wholly unimpressed. "Well, I am certain Mr. Potter is pleased to make your acquaintance. However, we must be on our way—"

"Ah, but surely you have time for a sundae, my treat? We're world-famous, you know. Or, at least, famous enough in Britain."

Snape's nose wrinkled slightly. "I must decline. Potter—"

Florean's gaze turned to Harry. "Well, perhaps Harry would like to rest here, professor, while you finish your shopping?"

Harry turned to Snape, watching his expression expectantly. "I promise I'll stay right here," he swore. "And this way I won't hold you up—"

Snape heaved a sigh. "Very well." He turned to Florean and, speaking very softly so that only the three of them could hear, he said, "Potter's safety is of the utmost importance. I am sure I do not need to tell you that there may very well be those out there who wish to do him great harm. You will not take your eyes off of him, and you will guard him with your very life. Because if any harm should befall him—"

"He's in good hands," Florean reassured Snape cheerily, though his tone was noticeably more sober now.

"I hope, for your sake, that he is." Snape turned back to Harry, his black eyes glittering. "Behave," he commanded. And with that he turned and disappeared into the crowded streets.

"Well," Florean commented, "it's good to know that you're in such capable hands, Mr. Potter."

Harry suspected that Florean had a few other choice thoughts that he wasn't about to share.

"Now," Florean sighed, "down to business. What will we be having today?"

"What do you like best?" Harry asked, mostly because he had no idea of what he might even order at a magical ice cream parlor.

Florean chuckled. "A terrible question. You'd might as well ask a mother which of her children she loves best. Hm… for the uninitiated, might I suggest a Butterbeer Sundae?"

"What's butterbeer?" Harry asked.

Florean nearly choked. "What's butterbeer? Oh my. Oh dear. Such a tragedy. Like butterscotch, you see, but not quite so…. Well, best you taste it. Yes, that's the only proper way to answer that question. I'm sure you'll like it, though. Very few who don't."

"That sounds great," Harry said, smiling.

"Then one Butterbeer Sundae it is."

Minutes later, Harry was digging into the best-tasting ice cream he'd ever had. Not that he'd had much ice cream. The woman who used to watch him from time to time when the Dursleys went away, Mrs. Figg, had once given him a small bowl of vanilla ice cream, though it had tasted old and freezer-burnt. And a handful of times there had been leftovers after Dudley's birthday parties. But none of that compared to the confection he was now enjoying, a heaping sundae that tasted like light, creamy butterscotch, only better. Florean had heaped it with candied nuts, rich chocolate syrup, a mountain of whipped cream, and a handful of sprinkles.

Harry was sure he was going to get sick off of such a rich treat, but he didn't care.

Even better, Florean had joined Harry to chat with him while he ate and, upon spying Harry's new book, had launched into a fascinating lecture on lesser-known early modes of travel. He seemed to be extremely knowledgeable in particular of enchanted shoes that certain families had chosen as alternatives to magic broomsticks.

"Some worked quite well," Florean explained as Harry suffered through his third ice cream headache. "For example, Arce Fleetfoot supposedly charmed her boots so well that she was able to run through the air effortlessly. It wasn't as quick or as efficient as flying by broomstick, though. But Arce argued for a time with her peers on the value of enchanted footwear. Just as discreet as brooms, just as ordinary, but always ready at a moment's notice for escape from the unexpected angry mob. Different time, it was. We had to be on guard constantly, you know. Ah, but poor old Arce's footwear was all but forgotten as soon as broom sports were born…."

Florean suddenly reached into his pocket and, pulling out an enormous silver pocket watch, exclaimed, "Goodness, the fudge ripple! Ah, no sense in spoiling Whisp's fine account anyway. I'll be right back, my boy. Another sundae?"

Harry was wise enough to decline. "But it was really good," he reassured Florean.

"Another time then. You'll have to see to it that your professor…ah…."

"Snape," Harry provided.

"Snape. Yes. Well, have him bring you back any time. We haven't even begun to discuss the history of magical transportation."

Harry smiled broadly as Florean dashed off. He hoped that he would be allowed to come back.

Harry finished his sundae and, after carefully wiping his sticky hands on his jeans, he pulled his book out in front of him and searched for his place.

"Harry Potter." The smooth, unctuous voice floated from behind him.

Harry turned around in his chair only to find a rather tall, pale man standing behind him. His long platinum blond hair framed his face in perfect curtains. From what Harry could tell, he was extremely well-dressed. His robes were black, perfectly tailored, and buttoned up the front by a series of identical intricate silver fixtures whose twists reminded Harry of curled snakes. He wore a short fur cape over his shoulders, despite the summer warmth, and in his black-gloved hand he held a cane with a silver snake's head fixed at the top.

"My, but I didn't expect the Harry Potter to be sitting around here, all alone."

"I'm not alone," Harry said defensively, his eyes flickering quickly back to the interior of the ice cream parlor.

"Of course not," the man said with a little smirk. "Lucius Malfoy." He approached Harry's table slowly, his gait languid, almost lazy, and offered a hand down to him.

Harry did not take it.

Malfoy retracted his hand, a flicker of irritation wrinkling his expression. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. "I have a son your age, you know. Draco. I imagine you'll be classmates in a few short years here."

Harry cleared his throat. Something about the man made him feel deeply unsettled. He wished Florean would return. "I'm really not supposed to talk to anyone—"

Malfoy's smile widened. "Oh, my dear boy, I am not just anyone. I've heard that you are still new to… well, the idea of magic." Malfoy pulled a face, shaking his head. "I'd heard that crackpot Dumbledore had consented—even insisted, I heard—that you be raised by muggles. Of all the inconceivably foolish notions. They might as well have had you raised by wolves."

The Dursleys were horrible, Harry thought, but that wasn't true of everyone who wasn't a wizard. Malfoy didn't even know the Dursleys, so how could he possibly think it was such a bad idea?

"But I hear that Dumbledore has finally come to his senses," Malfoy continued, "and is seeking to place you in a magical household, where you belong. Is that right?"

"I guess," Harry mumbled. Dumbledore had only said that living with the Dursleys was not ideal, and that he was trying to make other arrangements. He'd been very vague, even about why Harry was staying with Snape.

"My point," Malfoy sighed, planting his cane and leaning heavily into it, "is that there are certain kinds of wizarding families, Harry Potter. Some are, to be blunt, well-endowed, both with magical gifts and with wealth. It is no coincidence that the two often occur together."

Harry had little doubt what kind Malfoy thought himself to be.

"Now, knowing your parents, there is no doubt in my mind that you will be a great wizard. And it would be a shame—a waste, really—for you to be placed with the wrong kind of family and have your great potential squandered." Malfoy leaned even closer and lowered his voice so that Harry alone could hear him. "It cannot be coincidence that we have run into each other like this. Did you know that just last night I began writing letters, one to Dumbledore and one to the Minister himself? To assure them that my home is open to you, Harry Potter."

Harry couldn't shake the deep sense of discomfort that had lodged in his gut—and he doubted it was from Florean's sundae. "Er… thanks," he mumbled, not sure of what else to say.

"Lucius."

An overwhelming sense of relief flooded Harry when he heard that voice. Snape had returned. He twisted in his chair in time to catch sight of his guardian approaching the table, now laden with several new bags.

Malfoy turned as well, a look of pleasant surprise on his face. "Severus. Good to see you. I was just speaking to my new young friend here, Mr. Potter. This is Severus Snape, one of the finest potions masters Hogwarts has ever seen."

Snape smiled thinly. "We've been introduced. Mr. Potter is currently in my care, Lucius, while the headmaster arranges for other accommodations."

Malfoy's brow arched high. "Dumbledore must hold you in high esteem to entrust you with such a task. Well, I dare say that the ministry will be getting involved soon. That old fool has had too much of a hand in the boy's care. In fact, I was just telling Mr. Potter that I intend to propose he be placed in our home. After all, we have the means to see to it that he wants for nothing. And everyone knows how esteemed the Malfoy name is. I can hardly see Fudge objecting."

Snape's smile grew brittle. "Sensible as it would be, I cannot see Dumbledore approving, given your… history."

"Our history," Malfoy corrected him quietly, though Harry did not understand the distinction. "Yes. But with the proper political pressure, even Dumbledore will yield. After all, it has been rather presumptuous of him to assume complete control over the boy's affairs." Malfoy paused, then sighed. "I don't know how you stand working under the man, Severus. I've heard the most unsavory things about him."

"I manage," Snape replied simply. "Lucius, it has truly been a pleasure to catch up, but I'm afraid we're in a bit of a rush. Some of these ingredients are in danger of spoiling. As you know, they must be stored properly, less they lose their potency. Perhaps we can speak at length another time."

"Of course," Lucius agreed. "I'd best run along myself. I've only been to half of the quidditch supply stores. I promised Draco that I would look at broomsticks while in London… little tyke's already zooming around. I think he's outgrown his toy model. I tell you, Severus, in a few years he'll be a fine addition to your house team. I can see him making Seeker."

"Wonderful," Snape smiled. "Perhaps we will maintain our streak of excellence in Slytherin."

"Yes," Lucius mused, "I'd heard that Slytherin has been doing rather well. House and Quidditch Cup champions for how many years now? Four?"

"Five," Snape informed him. Harry noted the smug satisfaction in Snape's voice.

"Hardly surprising. Well, I shan't keep you any longer." Lucius smiled down at Harry, his eyes almost greedy. "A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Potter. I sincerely hope we will be spending more time together in the future."

"Yeah," Harry mumbled unenthusiastically. "Nice to meet you too."

Lucius nodded courteously to Snape. "Severus. Keep in touch."

As soon as Lucius turned his back, Snape's polite smile collapsed into a look of distaste. He stared after the man for a few seconds longer, his black eyes full of displeasure, before turning his attention back to Harry.

"Potter. What were you told about speaking to strangers? And where is Mr. Fortescue?"

Harry fidgeted uncomfortably under Snape's intense scrutiny. "He started speaking to me, sir. I told him that I wasn't supposed to." He had a million questions after the exchange he'd just witnessed, but the most pressing one was Malfoy's insistence that Harry come live with him. "He's not really going to—to adopt me, is he?"

"Doubtful," Snape muttered. "He is rather influential in the Ministry of Magic, but even Fudge is not such a coward as to cave to the man's demands." Seeing the look of confusion on Harry's face, Snape sighed. "I suppose I'll have to give you a lecture on our governing structure at some point. As for Mr. Malfoy, that is nothing you need concern yourself with. Now, I believe I asked two questions. Where is Mr. Fortescue?"

"Right here!" the man called, bustling out of the shop. He was wheezing, rather out of breath. His long brown hair was a mess, with stray locks plastered every which way, and there was a streak of a sticky brown substance (harry suspected it was chocolate sauce) across his forehead. "My bad, my bad. One of the assistants thought to use a Churning Charm to speed the process along and, well, long story short, it was a little too strong, and things quickly got out of hand. But it seems all is well here?"

Snape pursed his lips tightly. "Yes, fortunately. Though I thought I'd specified—"

"Ah, professor, Harry's a good boy. You can see it in his eyes!"

Snape winced.

"He knows to keep out of trouble," Florean said with an good-natured wink directed at Harry.

"I rather doubt that. Now, we must be on our way. Potter, come along."

Harry gathered his book up. "Thank you for the ice cream. And the history lesson."

Florean beamed. "Any time, my boy, any time. Next time we'll have to have a whole chat on the history of broom races! Mr. Whisp glosses right over them—as well he should—but there's a great deal of interesting information there."

"That'd be great," Harry said. "Goodbye, Mr. Fortescue!"

"Goodbye, Harry. Goodbye, professor!"

Snape made an irritated sound in the back of his throat and seized Harry by the arm, dragging him back into the busy street.

"Can I carry something for you?" Harry offered as they hurried along, eying Snape's bags.

"As several of the components I've purchased are combustible and volatile and I've no wish to be blown to bits, I'll have decline your generous offer," Snape told him acerbically.

Harry tried to ignore the unfriendly reply. He was quickly learning that this was just how Snape was. He reminded himself that Snape was taking good care of him, that he was a thousand times better than his aunt and uncle, and that just because he wasn't sweet and doting didn't mean that he didn't care about Harry.

Harry decided to change the subject. "What's Slytherin?"

Snape heaved a deep sigh. "Note your questions, Potter. When we return home, I'll direct you to readings that will answer them."

Harry sensed that he was pushing Snape's patience past its limits, so he clamped his mouth shut and resolved to just follow along silently.

Snape paused at the far end of the street, scanning the shops, apparently searching for something. Which surprised Harry, since he'd had no trouble heading directly to the other shops. After a few moments, Snape seemed to find what he was looking for, and he dragged Harry along until they were standing in front of a brightly-colored storefront that read Gambol and Japes Wizarding Joke Shop.

Harry thought that Snape must have made a mistake, or lost his mind. He couldn't even imagine the man entering such a place.

"Sir?" Harry asked hesitantly. "What are we—?"

"We've already established that you are less destructive when your attention is occupied elsewhere. I have little faith that a chess set, a piece of enchanted parchment, and a book will hold your attention for much longer. So, you will be picking out a plaything—preferably, something durable. No gags, no fireworks or explosives, no live animals, nothing that will create a mess. I will be waiting for you at the counter. Be quick."

Harry could hardly believe this. Snape was acting like his only interest was in keeping Harry out of trouble, but here he had already bought him a book. And now he was going to be able to pick something out from a magical toy shop. This was better than all his Christmases and birthdays combined.

"Are you sure?" Harry asked, though he really wanted to just dash straight into the shop.

"Go on," Snape told him coolly, his words sharp. "Before I change my mind."

Harry didn't wait for further invitation. He bolted inside, unsure of where to begin.

There was so much to take in. Crowds of school-aged children were clustered all over the store. Harry had to slip through all of them just to get a look at most of the items on display. Thankfully he was small enough that he was able to duck around arms and legs without much of a problem.

The store stocked everything from candy slugs to love potions—heart-shaped bottles filled with a glittery hot pink substance that giggling girls passed around, their eyes bright with excitement. On one wall were displays of something called Gobstones. There was a set in solid gold, one that claimed to spew an "extra-repulsive" substance at the loser, while another set, all in lavender and pink, promised exactly the opposite, a "pleasant flower shower" for the disgraced party. Beside that were decks of self-shuffling cards, particularly sets of something called Exploding Snap (which Harry knew better than to examine to closely, given Snape's stipulations). There were rows of novelty plants, some miniatures of existing species, some that Harry had never seen before. One, a golden-barked bonsai tree with silver leaves, claimed to be a "Galleon Tree", though a prominent disclaimer warned that the tree only produced cheap replicas of galleons and not actual currency.

What caught Harry's eye more than anything was a banner toward the back of the store that proclaimed in bright, flashing letters, "CASTLE SIEGE—the hit new game has finally arrived!" Below, set up on a sprawling table, was a tiny, elaborate castle, surrounded by what appeared to be sets of sharpened toothpicks. Fifty or so miniature figures—soldiers in metal suits and knights on tiny horses—were gathered outside the castle, apparently trying to storm the keep. Meanwhile, another two dozen figures were firing tiny arrows down on them from the battlements, many of them shouting curses.

Harry approached in wonderment, his eyes drifting to find a small placard describing the game.

With Castle Siege, YOU are in command! Choose a side and defend the castle or try to storm it. Marshal your troops, formulate a strategy, and execute! Includes 30 knights, 25 foot soldiers, 40 archers, 50 pikemen, a king, two commanders, and one castle as well as 2 catapults and one battering ram. Expansions sold separately.

Harry wondered if a miniature battle would create a mess, if Snape would deem this to be too destructive. Well, he figured, he could ask.

Harry found Snape standing off in a corner at the front of the store, standing beside the store's limited practical stock—cleaning supplies and such, likely more for the convenience of parents than for the rowdy child patrons.

"Well?" Snape demanded.

Harry cleared his throat, then launched into a quick description of the game he'd found. He felt very small as he made his case for it, especially trapped beneath Snape's critical gaze. "Would that be all right?" he asked faintly at the end of his explanation.

Snape pursed his lips, and for a second Harry thought that he would say no.

"You will not play with it in the house. The backyard only."

Harry stared at Snape, uncomprehending. Had he said yes?

"Go fetch it," he snapped.

Harry practically skipped back to the display, where he struggled to pick up one of the small wooden chests that contained the full set.

He couldn't help but hope, just a little bit, that Snape would change his mind and let him stay. Because strict as he was, Harry thought, at least he was fair. And he didn't seem so… slimy, like Malfoy. He was afraid of what another guardian may be like. And, worst of all, he dreaded being shipped back to live with the Dursleys.

Snape paid quickly for the set and, with a tap of his wand, lightened the load, just as he had with Harry's trunk, so that Harry did not have to struggle quite so much to carry it. Snape led him back down Diagon Alley, in search of a quiet corner where, Harry guessed, they could magically pop back home.

As they reached the front of a mostly-dead magical junk shop, Harry turned to Snape and, in his most sincere voice, said, "I just wanted to thank you, sir, for everything—"

Snape turned away from him, for some reason refusing to meet Harry's gaze. He looked slightly uncomfortable. "Don't mention it," he muttered. He held out his arm, and Harry knew enough then to take it without further prompting.

The world squeezed tightly around him, and in the next instant they were back in Spinner's End, standing at the edge of the walkway leading up to Snape's house.


	5. The Children of Spinner's End

Snape paced back and forth, measuring the length of his kitchen. He was late. It was not unusual for Dumbledore, but still, he could not help but feel a familiar agitation, a kind of unease that overcame him before any of their meetings.

The Potter boy was long in bed. Snape had made certain to send him upstairs well before Dumbledore's expected arrival, knowing that this would not be a social call. And to be perfectly certain that the boy would not wander downstairs and disturb them, Snape had even spiked the boy's evening tea with a mild sleeping draught, one that he had brewed to take full effect an hour after consumption. By now, Potter was sleeping like the dead.

Snape heard the roar of fireplace in the sitting room, and he hurriedly strode into the room just in time to see Dumbledore ducking out of the fireplace, brushing ash from himself.

The older wizard straightened, and, turning to Snape with a gentle smile on his lips, greeted him. "Severus," he sighed. "My apologies for my tardiness. I was engaged in a rather nostalgic conversation with Headmaster Dippet about a certain play…."

"No matter," Snape murmured smoothly. "A drink before we begin? Brandy?"

"If you have some," Dumbledore agreed amiably, "and if you are willing to indulge me…."

Snape conjured a glass and summoned the dusty bottle of brandy he kept just for these occasions.

Dumbledore accepted the floating glass and settled into the loveseat, his usual seat whenever he was visiting Spinner's End. Snape remained standing, arms folded stiffly behind his back.

"Ah," Dumbledore sighed, "these aching knees. But such is the curse of old age. How are things going with young Harry?"

Snape's lips twitched slightly. "As well as can be expected. He has only very nearly killed himself on two occasions thus far, so I suppose I cannot complain. Have you found him a suitable guardian?"

Dumbledore took a deep draft of his brandy before answering. "This is marvelous, Severus. Where did you purchase this again?"

Severus bit back his irritation. After nearly nine years of serving under the man, he was accustomed to these stalling tactics, and he had little patience for it. Often times it seemed as if Dumbledore was content to treat him as a student still. "Have you found him a home or not?" Snape repeated coolly.

Dumbledore sighed and set the tumbler down before him on the coffee table. "I am looking into the matter."

Snape could barely contain himself. "I told you," he ground out through clenched teeth, "that placing him in a permanent home is of the utmost importance. Lucius Malfoy is—"

"Lucius Malfoy will, under no circumstances, take charge of the boy. The minister is prepared to intervene should Mr. Malfoy become too insistent."

"I'd sooner bet on Hufflepuff taking the House Championship next year than rely on that slimy—"

"Severus," Dumbledore admonished Snape gently, "Cornelius is firm in this. He is well aware of my feelings, and my fears. If we must choose another guardian, it will most assuredly be someone better-suited—"

"Lucius is an accomplished schemer, and mark my words, he will not let this die easily. Potter is a political prop and a status symbol, and since the ministry has let slip that he is currently in search of a new home, he will doggedly pursue adoption. Potter has no living relatives other than those dreadful muggles. You've said it yourself. His parents' closest friends were blown up, tortured to insanity, taken to Azkaban, or—well, God knows where Lupin is these days. The precious Boy Who Lived is up for grabs, and you're a damned fool if you think that Lucius does not possess the faculty or influence to convince the ministry that he should be the one to take up the burden. You may hold sway there, but that may not be enough—"

"I am well aware of the importance of the matter," Dumbledore uttered. "Believe me when I say I have every interest in curbing pernicious influences on the boy. But I need you to trust that I can handle these matters."

Snape's lips pressed into a thin line, but he said nothing more.

"I trust that you were gracious to Mr. Malfoy?" Dumbledore continued mildly.

"Of course," Snape muttered. "Though I hardly—"

"There will come a day, Severus, when the relationships you continue to cultivate at my behest will play a critical role in our efforts, in the battle to come."

Snape's mouth tightened even further at that. The battle to come. There was no battle, he thought bitterly. It had been eight years since that night, since the Dark Lord had fallen, and since then there had been nothing but faint whispers in the darkest shadows that Voldemort might still live. Snape had known better than to waste time chasing them down.

Instinctively, he gripped his arm, the place where the Dark Mark was branded into his skin. No, if the Dark Lord had returned, he would have known. Dumbledore still believed that there was a coming war, but Snape was not so paranoid.

He had no delusions. He still served the headmaster because of his vow so many years ago. A useless promise in the end, since Dumbledore had not saved her. But for all his many faults, Snape was not disloyal, and so he would continue to pay his debt even when circumstances were not dire.

"Forgive me, Severus, but you seem rather agitated by this prospect. Surely you do not care if the boy is raised by Lucius? I doubt the Malfoys would allow him to suffer even the slightest under their roof, considering all they could gain from him—"

"I know Lucius' thinking," Snape hissed, "and you insult me if you believe that I condone his… ideology. After everything, you believe I would willingly hand a powerful symbol like Potter over to the man? You think I wish his rhetoric to gain a greater backing in the community? I—"

"Peace, Severus," Dumbledore murmured. "I did not mean to imply anything of the sort. I was only curious as to why you should be so invested." Snape heard the satisfaction in Dumbledore's tone, though, and saw the glimmer of approval flash from behind those spectacles.

After all these years, he thought bitterly, and he was still being tested. He would never be anything but a traitor and a coward in the man's eyes. Dumbledore was adept at hiding his truest feelings. But his disgust for Snape, the revulsion the headmaster had revealed that terrible night when Snape had turned to him, that was still there, Snape was sure of it.

"You forget that I am not one of the select purebloods, Albus," Snape murmured quietly, regaining control over himself. He paced over to his bookshelf and pretended to scan the titles, though it was just a pretense to shield his face from Dumbledore's piercing eyes. "That she was muggle-born." Snape did not add the bitterness of that ugly slur, mudblood, that the Malfoys so casually threw around. He did not speak of the sickness that twisted his stomach when he thought of the cause he'd once served as a Death Eater. "Blood purity was never the appeal for me."

"Of course not," Dumbledore agreed, his words warm and sympathetic. "Forgive an old man for his senility."

Snape winced. It would have been easier to remain insulted, he thought, had Dumbledore not been so self-deprecating most of the time.

"The simple solution to this dilemma," Dumbledore continued, "seems rather apparent, though."

"I agreed to two weeks," Snape said tautly, "out of respect for my vow. I will not raise Potter's son."

Snape did not have to turn to see Dumbledore's expression; he could feel the disappointment in the air, and could hear it latent in the older wizard's voice.

Dumbledore sighed. "I had hoped that perhaps—"

"We have not bonded," Snape cut him off. "I have not suddenly become fond of the boy. His presence here is tolerable, nothing more."

"Of course," Dumbledore agreed. "I will continue to make my inquiries."

A long silence stretched between them, one that weighed uncomfortably on Snape.

At last Snape turned back to Dumbledore. "I have no news concerning the Dark Lord, which should not surprise you. Most families who followed Him now believe Him to be gone. No one is searching."

"Good," Dumbledore murmured, though the word rang hollow. "But I must ask that\

, as always, that you keep an ear to the ground, as the muggles say."

"I will," Snape promised. "I will keep you apprised of all that I hear… though I would not expect any major rumors or leads until the school year begins again. The students tend to be more careless with their words than their parents."

"An admirable trait," Dumbledore mused, "brash honesty. A pity that, as we grow, we learn to twist our words so terribly into falsehoods."

Snape hmphed softly.

They lapsed back into silence again, though this stretch was more comfortable. Dumbledore continued to nurse his brandy. Snape conjured a fire in the hearth and moved to stand before it, where he could gaze at the flames.

"Hagrid has asked me to inquire if he might visit," Dumbledore said after a while. "He does not wish to be an inconvenience, but as you know, he is very fond of the boy, and was rather close with the Potters—"

"I am aware," Snape interrupted. "My home is not well-suited to a man of his size. If he wishes to take Potter out on an excursion, he has my blessing."

"Excellent," Dumbledore murmured. "I shall inform him as soon as I get the chance."

After a moment, Snape inquired, "Have you heard anything more about the Dark Lord?"

Dumbledore set his brandy glass down. "I have not," he replied, with unusual weight and solemnity. "I confess, I had rather hoped that you would have some news after making your inquiries…."

Snape almost laughed. "You expected Karkaroff to know anything? The coward is worse than Lucius. He's been trying to distance himself from his Death Eater days ever since the Dark Lord fell. And I am not terribly well-liked amongst the more devoted of his followers, most of whom, I might remind you, have been in Azkaban since his fall. I doubt the Dementors let them skip about making inquiries about their former master…."

"Just as well," Dumbledore murmured absently. Snape could tell that the man's thoughts had already turned elsewhere. "Well, I should not keep you, Severus. Though I should like to stop by again soon, perhaps at a more reasonable hour, to speak with young Harry."

Snape fought not to show his irritation, though he knew that Dumbledore likely sensed it. As if he would mistreat the boy, he thought bitterly, especially when the circumstances that made this unideal arrangement necessary had been an abusive and neglectful home.

"Certainly," he murmured.

"Do not think that I underestimate the difficulty of this," Dumbledore said suddenly, his bright eyes razor-sharp again. "I know the depth of your animosity for James—"

"I told you I would not coddle the boy," Snape interrupted, "but I'd hoped you would know that I would not let him suffer either. I have seen to his needs, as promised. Even I am not so petty as to torture the boy—"

"I never doubted that," Dumbledore told him seriously. "I only meant to say that you are taking on a great burden, something that a lesser man would not accept. You are putting Harry's needs above your own comfort. It is an admirable thing—"

"I am not doing it for admiration," Snape bit out, struggling yet again to rein in his temper. "I am fulfilling my word to you, no more. I don't need praise at every turn. I'm not one of your students seeking approval."

Snape had to turn away from Dumbledore again, unable to bear the intensity of the old man's expression.

Worse than disapproval, worse than that twinkling smugness, was the look of genuine sadness that he saw creasing the man's face. A look of pity. It sickened Snape.

"I did not mean to imply that you were seeking my approval, Severus," Dumbledore said quietly. "I genuinely admire the work you are doing here."

Snape ignored the man's words. Yes, Dumbledore still saw him as an eager little student, trying to be teacher's pet, trying to please him. He wanted Snape to feel good now, to see raising the Potter boy as a noble act of sacrifice that would, in turn, make him a great man.

But Snape saw right through that. Two weeks. One now, just one more week, and then he would be back to his peace and quiet. No more floods of questions, no more crises to avert, no more constantly wondering after every little bang and bump if the Potter boy had knocked himself unconscious. One week and his obligation would be over.

"It's nothing." Snape said offhandedly. "More brandy, Albus?"

"No, no," Dumbledore waved him off, rising to his feet. "I promised not to keep you, and I have done just that. I must thank you again for accommodating me at such odd hours."

Snape retrieved his small clay dish of Floo Powder from the mantle and offered it out to Dumbledore, who took a pinch of the glittering powder.

Dumbledore locked eyes with Snape for a moment, and Snape found himself unable to turn away this time. "Take care of yourself, Severus," he said somberly.

Snape merely dipped his head slightly, his jaw tightening. "You as well."

And with that, Dumbledore threw the Floo Powder into the fireplace, which immediately turned bright green, ducked in, and was gone with a crackling roar.

Snape immediately extinguished the fire and lifted his hands to his temples to massage them. Why had he even been worried about the Potter boy? Dumbledore was a much bigger source of headaches than an eight-year-old—even a Potter—could ever be.

XXXXX

When Harry woke in the morning, he felt especially groggy. He thought his tea had tasted a little funny the night before, and now he wondered if Snape had slipped some kind of drug into it to help him sleep better.

The thought worried him. He wondered if Snape knew that he'd been having strange nightmares—green flashes of light, a high, cold laugh, a woman sobbing. He remembered having them a few other times when he was little. But whenever they started up again, he hardly was able to sleep through the night.

He rubbed his eyes, trying to erase the last bit of sleep from them. At least whatever Snape had given him had granted him a dreamless night. He felt well-rested—though a glance outside at the sun, which was already high in the sky, told him that he'd overslept again.

Not that Snape seemed to really care. But his expression grew extremely judgmental whenever Harry showed up to breakfast any later than nine. And Harry liked it much better when he could eat his breakfast without the man's sneer and occasional snide comments.

Harry dug in his drawer for a pair of socks, carefully avoiding the ones that had belonged to Uncle Vernon. He settled on a serviceable pair of Dudley's, which would still be too big for Harry's feet, he knew. But at least there were only a few small holes in them.

Once he'd dressed, Harry ambled down the stairs, trying to distract himself with thoughts of how he would spend the day. He'd nearly finished Quidditch Through the Ages, and now he was very curious to learn more about Hogwarts, since Snape had refused to indulge his questions, claiming that everything he could possibly want to know could be found in his copy of Hogwarts, A History. Harry had already taken the volume out to look it over. It had seemed rather large and intimidating, and he'd been reluctant to try reading it.

But now his curiosity was almost too much, and he was ready to try tackling it.

Harry found Snape sitting at the table as usually, finished with breakfast but lingering over a cup of tea, his face obscured behind the latest book he'd taken up. Something with a green cover on volatility theory—whatever that was. As usual, Snape did not even glance up at Harry.

Harry helped himself to toast, which was a habit now. He no longer waited to be invited. He'd also discovered that Snape kept juice in the fridge, though for what reason Harry had no idea. So he'd started pouring himself a glass of orange juice every morning as well.

It occurred to him, as he went to retrieve the bottle, that the amount had not diminished at all over the past few days. The bottle was still just as full as it had been when Harry had first discovered its existence.

"Sir," Harry began tentatively. He'd learned to wait and see what Snape's reaction was before proceeding with his question. If it was just an impatient sigh or a scathing look, it was generally safe to proceed. But if the man's eyes narrowed or if he snapped "what?", Harry knew it was best to abandon the question and save it for a better time.

"Yes?"

Harry relaxed a little. Not too bad this morning, he decided. "Do you ever have to go grocery shopping?"

"As long as my ingredients are never depleted, no." Snape turned to him, brow knitted together. "Meaning that if you are thinking about polishing something off, you will come fetch me."

Harry wondered if he should press his luck. But Snape seemed to be in a relatively good humor today, he thought. "Why can't they get depleted?"

"Because," Snape sighed, "food can be multiplied from existing stores, but it cannot be created from thin air, meaning that I need a remainder of an ingredient in order to replenish it."

Harry decided that he'd go for broke. The rules of magic were fascinating to him. "But why can't food be created from nothing?"

"Because of the principal exceptions to Gamp's law of—because that's just how it is," Snape cut himself off, his voice rising with agitation.

And there, Harry decided, was the limit. "Oh. Okay. Thanks for explaining."

Snape lapsed back into silence, focusing his attention back on his book, and they said nothing more while Harry finished off his breakfast.

"I will be cleaning the house today," Snape said once Harry had risen to take his plates to the sink. "So you—"

"You need me to help?" Harry guessed. He figured that he couldn't get out of chores forever. It was a miracle, really, that he'd avoided them for this long.

"No," Snape said, "I need you to stay out of my way. You may play in either the front or back yard, but either way, you will need to remain outside until lunch at least."

Harry was suspicious that he wouldn't be required to do any work. If Snape had been his Aunt Petunia, he thought, he would be expected to do very nearly everything.

"Do I need to clean the Flobberworm cage?" he guessed, though he hoped that Snape wouldn't make him do that again.

Snape lowered his book slightly, enough to arch an eyebrow at Harry. "Were you planning on disobeying me again?"

Harry shook his head vigorously.

"Then no, I don't think that will be necessary."

Harry sagged down in relief. "Good. But—but maybe I could do something else? My aunt taught me how to wash the windows and loads of other stuff…." It didn't feel right to him to just go out and play while Snape did all the housework. He barely even had to do the dishes.

"Cleaning Charms are much faster, safer, and more effective than child labor," Snape told him smoothly. "So unless you do something to merit punishment, physical labor will be wholly unnecessary."

Right. Magic. How had Harry forgotten?

And then a thought popped into Harry's head. "D'you think I could maybe go meet some of the other children around here?"

"No." Snape's response was swift, dismissive, and unequivocal. And he did not offer to explain.

"Please?" Harry tried. "I swear I'll stay right on this street, and I'll behave, and I won't say a word about magic—"

"I said no, Potter. You've already proven your propensity for danger and trouble, and I have no interest in seeing what fresh mess you'll create for me if I give you free range of the neighborhood. You'll remain in the yard."

"What if—"

"Do you want to be punished?" Snape inquired in a deadly whisper, his eyes flashing from behind his book. "Because that can be arranged."

Harry shut his mouth. He'd gone too far, he realized. He shook his head at Snape, keeping his eyes locked on the tiled pattern of the kitchen floor.

"You've plenty to keep yourself occupied. Don't act as if you don't."

Harry had no answer for that. Snape was right. He would just go fetch his Castle Siege set and spend the afternoon pretending he was a knight commander. The enchanted set was better than anything that even Dudley had gotten, including all his fancy computer games. Harry realized he should be very grateful for that.

"I'll be in the front yard," Harry mumbled, and hastily retreated from the kitchen before he could annoy Snape any further.

XXXXX

Harry scrambled after the fleeing pikeman, scurrying to catch him before he crossed the border to the sidewalk. He still remembered Snape's initial warning not to venture beyond it, and he'd already decided that he would be on his very best behavior for the rest of the day.

But this was the third time that the cowardly little man had tried to flee the battle. The first few times he'd made a dash for the house or a beeline for the bushes, but now he seemed intent on making it out to the street.

Harry could hardly blame him. He'd been commanding the miniature castle's interior forces, and they had successfully repelled the invading force to the point that they'd been able to open the drawbridge and begin openly attacking the troops stationed outside. Most of the brave little men had stood and fought, but this particular little pikeman seemed intent on avoiding death (which really was just lying down on the ground and not moving until the game reset).

"Get back here, yellow-bellied coward!" one of the pikeman's knight commanders cried, as he dueled with one of Harry's knights. "I'll have you hanged for this!"

Harry dove for the pikeman just as they reached the edge of the sidewalk, but he missed, and the pikeman managed to scurry beyond, out into the Muggle world.

Snape was going to kill him, he thought.

Harry hesitated at the edge of the yard. If he was quick, he reasoned, and just darted over to retrieve the stupid little man. And then he would lock the pikeman in the wooden chest, where he couldn't cause any more trouble.

Harry took a deep breath and crossed over onto the sidewalk. His spine tingled a little as he broke the plane, and he wondered if it was just his imagination or if it was because he really could feel the magical boundary.

Harry spied the little pikeman headed toward a sewer grate. Harry scrambled after him. This time he managed to dive quickly enough to get his hand around the little man, though he guessed he'd scraped his knees in the process.

"Where'd you come from?"

Harry looked up, startled, so see a small throng of children of varying ages staring down at him. The one who'd spoken, a tall, lanky boy with a freckled face and chestnut hair, held a yellow rubber ball in his hands.

Harry shoved the pikeman hastily in his pocket, hoping that none of them had seen it. "I was just standing right over there."

"No you weren't," the boy protested, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

Right. The Cloaking Charm. Harry had forgotten.

"I was… hiding."

"Why were you hiding?" the young girl next to him demanded. She wore her blond hair in pigtails and had folded her arms tightly over his chest.

"Didn't want to be seen," Harry mumbled to his feet. He could feel the pikeman squirming around in his pocket, trying to free himself.

"He's a creep, just like that snake man," a younger boy conjectured, his eyes suspicious.

"I was just nervous," Harry lied. "I—I have to go—"

"Unhand me!" the pikeman cried shrilly from his pocket.

"What was that?" the tall boy demanded.

"A toy," Harry hedged, shoving the soldier back down and holding his pocket closed.

"Let us see."

Harry crushed his hand harder against his pocket. "You can't. He's... uh, it's broken—"

The tall boy exchanged a knowing glance with the pigtail girl. "You're going to let us see," the tall boy said slowly, his words menacing.

Harry knew that tone from Dudley and his cretin friends. The "or else" was strongly implied, and Harry didn't want to find out how good these children were at beating him and tormenting him.

He thought about darting back to the front lawn, wondering if they'd be able to follow. But if they saw his miniature castle and all the enchanted little men, he was sure that he would be in terrible trouble. He'd already broken one of Snape's rules.

Luckily, the pikeman acted before Harry had to make the choice. He somehow managed to wriggle through Harry's hand and slid down Harry's jeans, landing hard on the pavement. He was about to tear off again, but the tall boy reacted faster, stooping down and scooping the disheveled little man up.

"He's—"

The tall boy grinned. "You know about her, too?"

Harry was very confused suddenly. "Her?" he stammered, not understanding.

"The nice woman. The witch in the woods." The tall boy held the pikeman up by his collar. The pathetic little man kicked and struggled, eventually dropping his toothpick-sized pike to the ground. "You know, the one who makes magic toys. We thought we were the only ones who knew about her."

Harry felt even more confused now. "Uh… no. I'm not even supposed to leave the yard, actually—"

The boy's brow knitted together in confusion. "Then how did you get this?" He shook the pikeman a little.

"Found it," Harry lied quickly.

But that seemed to be good enough for the boy and the rest of the children. His brow smoothed. "Oh. She probably made it too. Though this is really neat. So far the coolest thing any of us has gotten was this necklace she made for Haley. Haley, show him."

The girl with the pigtails smiled brightly and touched the crystal pendant suspended at her neck. As soon as she touched it, it began to glow, and her hair turned a shocking shade of pink. Her excited eyes met Harry's, and she touched it again, turning her hair back to normal.

"Wow," Harry mumbled. He started to wonder if maybe Snape was mistaken, if there were more people in the neighborhood like them. There was at least one, he realized, whoever this mysterious witch in the woods was.

"We can't tell our parents though," the boy informed Harry solemnly. "If we do, she promised that her gifts would turn bad. We have to keep them hidden and be really careful about who we show them to." The boy glanced over his shoulder quickly, as if someone might be lurking there. "Some of the kids around here have big mouths. They'd ruin everything."

"Well, I won't say a word," Harry promised solemnly. "Honest."

The tall boy grinned. "Good. You're all right." He offered the pikeman back to Harry, who hastily shoved him back into his pocket and crammed his fist in there, to make sure he wouldn't escape again.

The tall boy extended a hand to Harry. "I'm Peter."

Harry shook it, feeling a little thrill run through him. This had to be the first time in his life that Dudley wasn't there to stop him from making any friends. This might actually work out for him. "Harry."

The tall boy pointed out the rest of the children. "You know Haley." He gestured to the little suspicious boy. "Marcus." "Jenny, Andrew. Freda."

Harry waved to each of them in turn, feeling a little shy. "It's really nice to meet you all. But I'm not supposed to be out in the street. I'll be in trouble—"

"You live with the snake man?" Marcus demanded, his little blue eyes flashing suspiciously again.

"Snape," Harry corrected him. "And yeah, I do."

"He's not watching you now, though?" Peter asked, his eyes flickering back to Snape's house.

"Er… no, I don't think so. He's busy."

Peter grinned. "Well, we were just going to go see the witch. She promised us that if we keep coming back, we can get new presents. You want to come?"

Harry hesitated. He figured he was already in enough trouble if Snape found out about this—which, Harry figured, the man would. He didn't seem like the kind of man to let much slip past him. "I would, but—"

"It's not far," Peter promised. "If you've got thirty minutes or so, we can go and come back without him ever knowing. Maybe you can get a friend for your little soldier."

Harry glanced nervously back at Snape's house. There was no sign of movement from within. And he figured it couldn't be that late in the day, maybe ten or eleven. Snape had said he'd be busy until lunch at least. And Harry couldn't deny that he was extremely curious about what a witch was doing living in the woods near here, especially without Snape knowing.

It would just be a short trip, he reasoned. He'd be back before Snape even realized he was gone. All the other children had already been to see her, and they were fine. So the witch couldn't be that dangerous. And, Harry thought, he'd met loads of witches and wizards now, almost all of them nice—especially Mr. Fortescue.

What was the worst that could happen?


	6. The Witch in the Woods

Snape stared in disbelief at the wardrobe spread out before him. The boy didn't own a decent piece of clothing. Did the headmaster know? Or was the little cretin simply so ungrateful and reckless that he ruined anything given to him?

No, Snape reminded himself. He had seen himself the Muggle relatives the headmaster had seen fit to entrust the boy to. And mere minutes in their presence had been enough. He needed to break himself of this reflex. James Potter's son or not, he was still a child. And he had likely suffered enough under the roof of his sorry excuse for an aunt and uncle.

Not to mention what Albus Dumbledore would do to him if he suspected Snape of treating the precious Harry Potter maliciously.

One more week, he reminded himself. No longer, not even if Dumbledore hemmed and hawed and tried to insist that he had been unable to make the proper arrangements.

Snape sighed and, slipping his wand back into the holster in his sleeve for just a moment, tried to take mental inventory of the worn-out garments before them. Most looked as if they would swallow his young ward whole, just like that horrid mustard sweater he'd donned to hide his boils. Resizing them to appropriate dimensions would be a simple matter, he thought, though it was best to do it while the boy wore each outfit, in order to assure the best fit. Fixing them up into something decent, however, would require just a touch of brushing-up on his part….

Transfiguration had never been his favorite subject. Not that Snape had not excelled at it. There were few subjects that had given him difficulty during his Hogwarts years. And sprucing up Harry Potter's abysmal wardrobe would be nothing too complicated—not even a change of state or life, he thought. Maybe he could just refresh himself on the proper incantations. Usually he could simply intuit the magic, but he'd rather not have to take the boy out too soon for clothes-shopping should he, by some off chance, botch the job beyond reparation.

Snape picked up a holey navy t-shirt that likely would have hung a bit loosely even on his frame. He held it with just his index and thumb, eying it with disgust. He wondered if he should start having the boy wear proper clothes rather than modified versions of his Muggle castoffs. But that would mean a robe-fitting, and more of the famous Harry Potter turning heads and chatting up random strangers, even when he had been given strict instructions to avoid such a thing.

He sighed and briefly massaged his temples. He would speak to the boy later and see what was to be done about his wardrobe.

Slipping his wand back out with practiced ease, he waved it once to send all the clothes spread over the bed back into the boy's dresser. And then Snape proceeded to cast the appropriate cleaning charms—Scourgify for the floors, a few freshening charms for the sheets and curtains. He'd already done most of the downstairs level, save for his lab, which he planned to do that evening by hand seeing as the volatile residue did not tend to interact well with cleaning charms.

A pity, he thought, that he didn't have a dearth of disobedient children to do the labor for him. Perhaps his young ward would do something in the meantime to justify having to scrub cauldrons….

Speaking of, it had been a good hour since Snape had glanced out in the yard to check on the boy. If he'd had any sense, he would have modified the wards to keep the boy in bounds. But the several times he'd looked out to check on the Potter boy, he'd found the child bent down on his hands and knees, well within the confines of the yard, seemingly fully absorbed with the strange castle set he'd picked out. Snape had noted that he was content to keep far back from the front walk.

He'd known that he would not be much longer with his cleaning, and since the boy had behaved all morning, he'd seen no need to fuss with the wards.

He descended the stairs, his thoughts already shifting to lunch. He supposed that they were both likely sick of sandwiches by then. But Potter was a young boy, likely finicky and not too refined in his tastes, meaning that Snape had no idea what to prepare. He certainly could just make whatever he damned well pleased, and tell the boy he could go hungry if he didn't like it.

But there had been no ugly tantrums thus far. Snape knew that his nerves frayed easily, and while he was certainly accustomed to dealing with the throngs of children at Hogwarts—mostly, as one of his old First Years had put it, by keeping them scared witless—he wasn't certain his tried-and-true tactics would work on a young Harry Potter if he truly got out of hand.

After all, he could hardly threaten the boy with points. Not yet.

But maybe he would get lucky and avoid any major episodes. And one simple way to avoid that was by keeping the food he prepared as palatable as possible. Well, he would ask the boy what he wanted when he called him inside.

Snape made his way to the window and peered out, expecting to see his charge sitting just where he'd left him.

But the castle set stood abandoned. Severus could see that chaos had broken out in the ranks of the little transfigured men, who were fighting amongst themselves.

So where was the boy?

He stepped out onto the lawn, scanning the area. He wouldn't leave his little set unattended, that much was clear. Snape had been rather impressed with how well the boy cared for his toys. He even handled his blasted quidditch book as if were Merlin's own grimoire.

"Potter!" he bellowed, scanning out beyond the yard. Would the boy be foolish enough to set foot beyond the wards? He certainly didn't appear to be out and about anywhere in the little cul-de-sac.

Maybe the boy had gone to relieve himself.

But Snape could not find his ward anywhere, not in the house, not in the backyard, not in the greenhouse (though he swore that he would flay the boy alive if he was foolish enough to venture in there).

It wasn't until Snape made his way back out into the front yard that he began to truly feel the panic. Why, he berated himself, had he not taken greater care? What had he been thinking, trusting an eight-year-old—a son of James Potter, no less—to stay put? He would be lucky if the boy hadn't meandered down to the river and drowned himself in the filthy, polluted waters.

It was at that moment that he noticed a piece of parchment fluttering down from the sky. It had been folded into a delicate bird, but Snape could tell from the occasional glance at its thin wings that it was a message of some sort, judging by the glimpses of thin black writing.

The feeling of dread in his stomach congealed like a botched potion.

The bird message landed lightly in his outstretched hand and stilled, its enchantment spent. Snape unfolded it, his fingers trembling slightly. There was a terrible familiarity about it that he could not quite place.

And then he caught sight of the delicate handwriting that he knew well from his past, from messages passed covertly in his darker days. Not as delicate as her sister's, though just as perfect, with a hint of a tremor now, particularly in the larger loops.

Snape did not want to believe it because it was impossible. She was supposed to be in prison, drained into a near-catatonic state by a host of Dementors. She could not be here, could not have possibly gotten her hands on the boy.

But the message was all too clear.

Sev,

Come meet me in the forest clearing. You know the one, I think. Oh, and do hurry. Your precious little boy is a wee bit squeamish, and I don't think he'll like the games I have planned.

Do be sure to come alone. I think you know why.

Can't wait to catch up!

XOXO

Bella

Snape felt his blood ice over. It was her. He could feel it deep in the pit of his stomach. But how? How could she be here? How could she have known about the Potter boy being here? About his address?

He pushed back the whirling thoughts. There was no time.

Suddenly, the note flared with an evil-looking fire, a bright green flame that, to Snape, presaged a terrible tragedy in the making. He released the parchment immediately, knowing that whatever charm spelled into it would make certain that the message could never be pieced back together.

Without a second thought, Snape called to mind the image of the clearing not far from the bank of the river. He'd played there as a child quite often; in fact, it held some of his fondest memories. She could not know, he thought, but it seemed as if she had chosen the place on purpose, as if to taint it now with whatever atrocities she had planned.

With a barely-audible crack, Severus Snape vanished from his front lawn.

XXXXX

"There's a lot of trash around here," Harry remarked.

He wasn't complaining, particularly. Sure, there had been a park much nicer than this close to the Dursleys, but he never got to go there. Or, when he did, he just ended up getting chased around by Dudley and beaten up by his little gang. Harry would have rather spent his afternoons playing beside this grimy, polluted river with the children of this neighborhood than in the pristine park on Privet Drive.

"You get used to it," Peter said. "Just so long as you don't look too close. The woods isn't too bad."

Harry grinned to himself a little. He liked the idea of being close to the woods. Maybe the professor would let him come out here after all, once he trusted Harry more.

Harry's stomach clenched suddenly with a surge of guilt. Once he trusted Harry…. If the professor found out about this, Harry certainly wouldn't be coming out here again. He likely wouldn't be allowed to leave the house again, even to play in the front yard. The professor might even lock him in his room for a while, which would be better than being locked in the cupboard, but not by much.

If Harry got caught, that was. And he didn't plan on it.

"Your little soldier's finally stopped complaining," Marcus noted, quickening his pace to stroll alongside Harry.

The stupid pikeman hadn't shut his mouth at all, not until they'd wound their way through the streets and down to the end of the road that met the river, next to the small swath of woods outside the residential area. His incessant complaining had at least been muffled by the fabric of Harry's pocket.

And now he'd finally fallen silent. Harry wondered if he'd shouted himself hoarse, if such a thing was even possible.

"He's probably sulking," Harry muttered darkly. "Figures. He never did anything but whine."

"The nice witch will get you a new one," Peter promised. Then, his tone turning a bit greedy, he added, "I wonder what I'll get this time. She promised me something real good for coming back."

"You should ask her for a wand like hers!" Haley suggested. "I know she said she couldn't last time, but just imagine!"

Harry's heart skipped a beat. He hadn't dared to ask the professor about a wand, not after the man had bought him so much during their last outing. But that was what he wanted, more than anything in a world, to have a long elegant wand like the professor's, and to whip it out and make dishes float through the air and the soup stir itself and all kinds of other wonderful things. And maybe, just maybe, this witch would give him one, because he was, after all, a wizard. He'd made things happen before, strange things.

Maybe the other children couldn't have wands because they were Muggles. Maybe this witch would only have to take one look at Harry and she would know. And then Harry could go back and show the professor, and the professor could teach him how to make his trunk fly and his cuts vanish and all sorts of useful tricks.

"Or money!" one of the other boys chimed in brightly. "Imagine all the stuff you could buy if she could just magic you a bunch of money—"

"She makes better things than all the money in the world could buy, you dolt," Marcus grumbled. "Money. Honestly, Andrew, you have no brains."

"You're one to talk!" Marcus cried shrilly. "What'd you ask for last time, huh? Magic shoelaces? Like you can't tie your own shoes—"

"Shut it," Peter threatened.

They'd reached the edge of the woods by then. There was a little path that looked like it had been used by wild animals that led deeper into the thicket of trees.

"You go first, Harry," Haley told him, a gentle smile on her lips. "We always let the new ones go first. Don't worry; she's really nice, I promise."

Harry drew a trembling breath. Up until this point he'd been just a little nervous, but now there was a terrible tightness in the pit of his stomach, as if a fist had clenched around the organ and was refusing to let it go.

There were too many fairytales about children being lured off by witches, he reasoned. And they were probably all written by non-witches and wizards who were jealous of the magically gifted. That was why he had a bad feeling now.

Peter cleared his throat, and it suddenly dawned on Harry that he'd been stalling for a good few minutes by then, grappling with the warring feelings inside of him. "If you're scared," the tall boy goaded, "maybe we should have left you behind."

Harry glared frostily at the boy for half a second before plucking up his courage. He strode forward, trying to project more confidence than he felt.

They didn't have to trudge far. Harry had to beat back some of the weeds and briars that encroached on the narrow path, which meant that he ended up cutting his palm several times on snagging thorns. The rest of the children tromped happily after him, chattering quietly to themselves.

Eventually they reached a small field. There were a few twisted trees in the clearing, and Harry noticed that the pollution of the riverbank hadn't failed to reach this quiet little haven. A few bags and plastic bottles littered the area, strewn amidst the field grass that was already beginning to brown in the heat of summer.

Harry turned back, looking for Peter, suddenly feeling very uncertain of himself. "Uh—the witch—"

The tall boy came up to stand beside Harry, clasping his shoulder reassuringly. "Don't be nervous. Really, she's so nice. You want to call her yourself?"

Harry balled his hands into fists and shoved them into his pockets. "I dunno. Maybe you should? I just—"

Peter squeezed Harry's shoulder. "I get it. I was nervous when I first met her too. Thought she was going to bake me into a pie or something, you know, like the witch in the fairytale. But honest, she's not like that at all. She loves children." Peter cast a glance back at the others. "Are you ready?"

"I'll call," Haley offered, her eyes bright. She took in a lungful of air, then cried, "Hu-llooooooo!"

Her high, sweet voice echoed in the clearing for a moment, startling a few birds from their roosts. The distant cry of a perturbed crow echoed through the trees, a scolding cawing that caused the hair on the back of Harry's neck to prickle uncomfortably.

And then a woman appeared from behind a tree, grinning broadly. "Hello, kiddies."

Harry wasn't sure what it was about the witch that started his heart pounding in his chest. She was pale, he noted immediately, paler than even the professor. Her black hair—a thick, shining tangle of curls—was littered with leaves and twigs. She could have been pretty, Harry thought. Her lips were soft and full, and her features mostly pleasant, but she was so thin, and her hooded eyes had a wild, cruel light in them that reminded him of a feral animal.

The witch lifted the hem of her tattered black dress delicately, as if it were the finest of ballgowns, and advanced forward, her grinning growing wider as she approached Harry. "And who do we have here? Have you brought a new friend to me, my sweets?"

"This is our friend Harry," Peter announced cheerfully, giving Harry a little push forward.

A wicked glint entered into the witch's eyes. "Harry Potter," she pronounced, almost reverently. But there was something underlying the awe—disgust? Triumph?

In a flash, the woman had whipped a wand out, a curved, black thing that reminded Harry of a talon. She waved it a few times, sending out a few blinding bursts of blue.

Harry instinctively threw himself against the ground, though none of the spells were aimed at him. He cowered as the witch sent out another round of spells at the children, who stood still as scarecrows as they were successively struck by jets of greenish-yellow light.

"Run home, kiddies," the witch announced dismissively. "Harry and I have things to discuss."

Harry watched, his gut clenching as if squeezed by a fist, as the whole troupe of children flitted off without a word, without even a glance in his direction.

Harry pushed himself back to his feet, his temple pounding. "What did you do to them?" he demanded angrily. His every instinct was screaming at him to run, but his muscles felt locked in place.

"Oh, Harry," the witch chided, "such concern! Such a sweet boy you are, just like your parents."

"If you hurt them…," Harry began threateningly, but his voice hitched. What could he do? And against a witch? Oh, why hadn't he listened to the professor?

The witch clucked her tongue and flicked her wand at Harry, sending out a length of rope at him. The rope snaked around his arms and bound him tightly, pinning his arms firmly against his body. "I wouldn't hurt them," the woman soothed him. "No, no, that wouldn't do. Fun as it would be… but no, that wouldn't do at all. Too many complications, too many inquiries. Oh no, Harry dear, I just sent them home."

Harry didn't know whether to believe the woman or not. But he sensed he had more immediate concerns. "What do you want?" he demanded hoarsely.

The woman flicked her wand again, and Harry felt himself propelled toward her, pulled by the magic rope she'd conjured. Harry tried to fight by digging his heels into the ground, but it was no use. The spell tugging him forward was too strong.

When he was planted right in front of her, held in place by the strangling grip of the ropes, the witch bent down to him. In some hideous parody of a motherly gesture, she gently brushed his black fringe aside to reveal the infamous lightning bolt scar that marred his forehead. Harry cringed as she traced it gently, almost lovingly.

"So this is the mark," she mused. "His mark…. The only thing remarkable about you, isn't it? And it's not even yours…."

Harry tried to pull back from her, but the witch laced her fingers in his hair tightly and held him in place.

She leaned down close to his ear, so close that Harry could feel her hot breath against his skin. "It was luck, Harry Potter. But your luck has run out today. Perhaps that old fool should have kept a closer eye on you, mm? Perhaps he should have known better than to entrust you to that coward and traitor…."

The witch stroked a hand over Harry's head, causing shivers to run down his spine.

"No matter," she continued cheerily. "This has worked out just fine, I'd say. Little Sev will come running to save you, so he doesn't disappoint his new master. And then we'll play for a bit… not too long, Harry, no need to fret, just long enough to make you both pay. Oh, the Dark Lord will be so pleased, you know, to hear that I've taken care of two nuisances."

"Voldemort's dead!" Harry spat. "Dumbledore told me—"

He didn't get a chance to finish his sentence, because as soon as he opened his mouth, the witch lashed her wand at him. A blinding red light overcame him, and the next thing he knew his knees had buckled beneath him and he was writhing against the ropes constricting him, lost in the depths of the worst pain he'd ever experienced in his life. His bones seemed to bet twisting inside him, grinding against his muscles, as his skin threatened to split open. His skull throbbed like concrete under a jackhammer. He could feel himself screaming, though he was too lost inside himself to hear the actual shrieks.

After what felt like hours the pain finally receded. Harry lay panting on the ground, glasses askew, tears leaking down his cheeks. He could feel where the rope had chafed against his skin, rubbing it raw. His tongue was thick and dry in his mouth, not that he was particularly keen on saying anything else at the moment. Not if the witch was going to torture him like that again.

The witch nudged Harry with the toe of her shoe, rolling him over onto his back. "Do not," she began imperiously, as if giving a lecture in primary school to a particularly unruly child, "call him by his name. And secondly…." She lifted her wand.

Harry felt himself being lifted up, directed by the point of her wand. When he was hovering before her, the tips of his trainers just barely brushing against the grass, his body sagging in the ropes, the witch leaned in again to speak softly against his ear.

"The Dark Lord will be returning. And this time, there will be no flukes, no nasty little tricks, to stop him from ascending." The witch leaned back and, with a flick of her wrist, let Harry collapse back to the ground. She hiked up her dress and stepped away from him, her movements light and excited, almost dancelike. "Now," she announced brightly, "to get down to business. Let us see… what message to send little Sev? Mmm… he will be surprised to see me. Very, very surprised."

Harry watched, his vision blurred by tears, as the witch summoned a piece of parchment from thin air.

"What do you think, Harry dear? We should let him know where you are, shouldn't we? Wouldn't want your dear caretaker to worry…."

Harry tried to think. The professor was a wizard, but he had no idea how the man would fare against this crazed witch, who'd dismissed a whole group of children with a wave of her wand. And if the man couldn't hold his own, he would be walking straight into a trap, with Harry as the bait.

All his fault, he chided himself angrily. What had he done? Maybe his aunt and uncle were right. Maybe he was just a burden, a rotten little boy who brought suffering to whoever had the misfortune of looking after him. He felt a few fresh tears slide down his cheeks.

And what could he even do? He was completely helpless now. Even yelling at the witch would only make her torture him more. If only he wasn't so stupid and disobedient… even in the best case scenario, the professor would be throwing him out on his ear after this. He wouldn't even wait for Dumbledore to come pick him up. Harry would be waiting out on the sidewalk.

"There!" the witch announced triumphantly. Harry watched in despair as the piece of parchment assumed the form of a bird and fluttered off. She turned her glittering eyes back to Harry, baring her teeth in a terrible smile. "He'll be along shortly. Very punctual, Severus. But in the meantime… Crucio!"

And with that, Harry's world dissolved in an oppressive mist of red and pain.


	7. The Itsy Bitsy Spider

Severus Snape was used to Apparition. He'd begun mastering it early in his career, long before he was close to being of age. So the short trip to the familiar clearing was, to him, a blink, nothing at all disorienting, meaning that he was able to arrive, feet firmly planted, vision clear, and wand drawn to confront the deranged woman who had somehow gotten her hands on the Potter boy.

Bellatrix Lestrange stood in the middle of the clearing, seeming for all the world to be at perfect ease. She had the boy tied up and held him against her body, her wand levelled at his throat.

Snape could see the boy's eyes, red-rimmed and tear-streaked. He could only imagine what she'd done to him. But there was no time to dwell on that now. Potter was clearly alive. Now Snape had to focus on keeping him that way.

"Severus!" Bellatrix cried in delight, as if she were greeting a long-lost friend. But her eyes, filled with a predatory gleam, told a different story. "I was just telling Harry here about our shared history. About how cute you were as an itty bitty first year. Oh, I remember how delighted you were when you were put in Slytherin with us. You were just beaming at Lucius, so proud…."

"I didn't come to reminisce, Bella," Snape drawled, keeping a tight rein on his emotions. "Let the boy go. I think escaping Azkaban is crime enough, don't you? Perhaps if you show some remorse, they'll let you go back without a kiss."

Bellatrix let loose a high, unnerving peal of laughter. "Oh Sev, always trying to prove yourself! You haven't changed one bit, have you?" She jabbed the tip of her wand into the boys cheek, her eyes glinting with amusement when the boy squirmed. "But you were weak. I could always tell. I don't know why the Dark Lord even let you hang around!"

This was good, Snape thought. Let her talk. Bellatrix loved to chat, to gloat, to needle. And the longer she talked, the longer he had to analyze her and form a plan.

"And then," she spat, her tone growing bitter, "you caved like the half-blood scum that you are. You went crawling to him, begging him to save your precious Mudblood girl, even after our master graciously promised to spare her—Merlin knows why. He shouldn't have even granted her a swift death, the filthy little creature."

Snape had to bite his tongue to retain his composure. He could not afford to give in to his anger, not now.

"Dumbledore will be so disappointed," Bella hissed, her lips twisting into a wicked grin. "I haven't decided, you know, what to do with you when I'm finished with the boy. Should probably kill you too, just to be safe, but I would hate for you to miss a lecture from that deluded old fool. I can just imagine the look on his face when he finds out that his pet Death Eater has gone and gotten the famous Harry Potter killed. Mm, but we'll have plenty of time to decide what to do with you, won't we?"

Snape was focusing on Bellatrix's posture, trying to see if she was the least bit unsteady. Nearly eight years in prison had not left her the picture of health, but she seemed steady enough on her feet, meaning that Snape could not count on her to falter physically. Though that did not mean that she would not run out of stamina more quickly, which might give him just enough of an edge to take her down.

Though, more than likely, this would all boil down to luck.

"You escaped from Azkaban," Snape observed coolly. "Quite the feat. It would be a lie to say that I'm not impressed. Am I correct in assuming that it was not thanks to the Dark Lord that you are once again free?" Snape wasn't certain if she would take the bait, but he sincerely hoped she would—and not just to further delay the inevitable. This would be vital information, necessary in preventing further breakouts. There were certainly enough fanatical Death Eaters to cause the Boy Who Lived enough trouble for a lifetime.

"Oh, he will be back, Severus," Bellatrix growled, the grin disappearing from her face. "You mark my words. He will be back, and he will reward me beyond measure for these little services. The head of the Boy Who Lived and his favorite half-blood traitor. The Dark Lord will give me a place of honor—"

"Ah, even more impressive. You escaped on your own. And it only took… what, eight years?"

Bellatrix snorted. "Eight. Years." She punctuated each word with a jab of her wand into the boy's cheek. "It's never been done before, you know that? You should be impressed."

Snape took a careful step forward, just a small step. Bellatrix did not react too violently to his advance, at least. "Oh, I am. Who was it, then, that finally paid your way out? I can imagine arranging for the right bribes, the right climate, all that, took a great deal of time and discretion. Narcissa was the one, I take? She always was rather fond of you. She was heartbroken after your trial—"

"Cissy?" Bellatrix scoffed. "She'd have to empty her vaults to convince anyone to let me slip away. And I would never ask that of her. Oh no, I can take care of myself, Severus. I would think you knew that."

Snape advanced another half-step as he continued, cool as ever, "Your pride is unparalleled, Bella. To think that it would lead you to tell such grandiose lies even to me, when you've already professed that you intend to dispose of me…." He tutted softly, shaking his head. "Escaping Azkaban alone, when we both know that your cell is one of the most secure, the most watched…."

"Ha!" Bellatrix squealed. "As if I would bother! I don't give a kneazle's arse what you think. The only help I needed was for my dear sister, Merlin bless her, to bring me a little mandrake leaf…."

"Ah," Snape murmured, advancing another half-step. "I see."

Bellatrix grinned, revealing two ghastly rows of teeth that had suffered heavily during her stint in prison. "Do you? My, you always were a quick study."

"You managed to become an Animagus, then, in spite of the presence of the Dementors…. I assume that, once you'd held the leaf under your tongue for the required time, your dear sister contacted a brewer and had the appropriate potion smuggled in?"

"Clever boy. You always did know your potions."

"I assume your formidable talents in Occlusion have helped to stave off the worst of the Dementors' effect. And once you were able to transform… I imagine any animal's emotional and mental presence would be different, less susceptible…."

Bellatrix laughed. "They stopped noticing me after a while. Like I wasn't even there to them. So when the day came it was so easy to just crawl out."

Snape caught Harry's eyes for just a second, and in that moment he tried to convey to him his calm and confidence to the child. But the frantic terror he saw there was not the kind of emotion that could be quelled with a mere glance.

"Is it too much to hope that your form was something appropriate, perhaps a worm or a flea?"

"Now Sev," Bellatrix chided, "jealousy doesn't become you. But if you must know, my form turned out to be most useful indeed…." She grinned again, once more flashing her rotting teeth. "A black widow. Something with potent venom, at least. Which was most useful when I needed to relieve certain daft wizard of this." She jabbed the wand into Harry's cheek again. "Even more useful for slipping into the robes of visiting officials and hitching a ride to the mainland."

"And your first order of business was to grace us with a visit," Snape continued, as if Bellatrix's revelation was not the least bit surprising. "I'm flattered. Though I must wonder how you learned about the boy's presence here…."

"Rumors, Sev. It's all the gossips can talk about, that poor Harry Potter had to be removed from his filthy Muggle home. I'm glad Dumbledore decided to have you play nanny. I was so looking forward to paying you a visit. So lovely that I didn't have to go out of my way." Bella ran a hand over the boy's head. "And as jealously as you guard your privacy… well. There are records of residence, even for Dumbledore's tame Death Eaters. And my brother-in-law is, as you know, quite influential in the ministry, in addition to being a Governor at your place of employment. All it took was a gentle nudge from me."

"Mm, then Lucius and Narcissa are expecting you for tea?" Snape inquired mildly. He didn't know how much longer he could keep this up. At least Bellatrix seemed to be tolerating the banter. But, he figured, she'd likely set wards long before he'd arrived in this clearing. By her calculations he was trapped, and she was now free to play with her food, so to speak.

Her overconfidence was one advantage, he thought. She was one to flaunt her power—not that it was not remarkable. She was a well-endowed witch with a frightening repertoire of Dark Magic, more than capable of holding her own in any duel.

But Severus, too, was fairly adept at defensive and offensive magic, though he liked to keep his competence to himself. Better to have an opponent underestimate him, as he believed Bellatrix would. He would need every edge in the fight to come.

"Afraid I've kept them in the dark," Bellatrix replied off-handedly. "No sense in getting them into trouble. No, a cryptic letter will do wonders with Lucius. He knows how I operate."

Snape could not help but feel a bit of disappointment, a shadow of what he'd felt when he'd learned that Lucius and Narcissa had avoided prison terms by claiming they'd been under the Imperius curse. He himself had risked his life spying for the Order of the Phoenix just to earn that same clemency, and they'd slipped out of it with scarcely any effort. And yet again, they'd avoided any concrete ties to Bellatrix's escape, though he was certain who'd seen to the gift of the mandrake leaf and the Animagus potion.

"Perhaps because you know Lucius and Narcissa would not approve of this recklessness?" Snape suggested, still as calm as if they were catching up over coffee. "After all, Lucius has expressed interest in adopting the boy. I can't imagine he will be too forgiving if you muck up his political endeavors…."

Bellatrix shrugged. "He'll get over it. Better for him if he's not coddling the Brat Who Lived when the Dark Lord returns… though I suspect he and Cissy both will have some things to answer for when that day arrives. But that's enough chitchat, I believe. Now, if you don't want to see dear Harry here suffer through another round of Cruciatus, I suggest you drop your wand."

Another? Snape thought. Sweet Merlin… But Bellatrix did so love to play with her food. Of course she wouldn't spare the boy.

Now, of course, was no time to show concern. "Mm, not really a sufficient bargain, Bella. I can patch the boy up and doctor his memories if need be. As long as he's breathing in the end I'm not troubled. I suppose you could threaten to cast a Killing Curse… but we all know how that went the last time. You could take a chance, I suppose, that it won't rebound on you like it did on the Dark Lord. Who knows? Maybe you'll get lucky. Though you never struck me as the brave type…."

The whole time Snape spoke, he searched out the boy's gaze, hoping he would be able to meet his long enough for a touch of Legilimency.

At last the boy's panicked eyes met his, questioning. It was enough for Snape to press into his mind with his command. When I cut your bonds, flee.

"I doubt you know—"

Snape did not give her time to finish her sentence. He lashed his wand at the enchanted ropes holding the boy, cutting them with a precise Severing Charm. To his relief, the young boy's reflexes were sharp, and he was able to duck out of the way and scramble off toward the forest with surprising agility. He was out of sight before Bellatrix could even turn on him.

Not that Snape gave her much time to look. As soon as Harry was clear of her, Snape sent a flurry of hexes toward the woman, channeling all his concentration so that they were as strong as possible.

Snape certainly caught her off guard, but that didn't mean that Bellatrix couldn't recover. Her Shield Charm was lightning quick; before Snape's barrage of hexes even reached her, they fizzled into nothingness.

Snape had a second's notice to construct his own Shield Charm when Bellatrix returned fire, a hail of red and green curses that Snape had no desire to experience. In the hair's breadth of a moment he had once his shield had been erected, he cast a glance off to the right behind Bellatrix, searching for Potter's scrawny body amongst the weeds. He spied the boy cowering behind a half-rotted stump, his eyes so wide that Snape could see the whites from where he stood.

Stupid reckless Potter, he thought angrily.

"Run!" he bellowed, working to make his voice as terrifying as possible. Bellatrix was likely alone as an escaped convict, meaning that there was no chance of Potter being snatched up by an accomplice. The best thing the boy could do now was get himself as far from the clearing as possible, where no stray spells could hit him.

He had no more time to spare on the boy, not if he was going to win this. He launched a storm of tripping jinxes at Bellatrix, followed by a long diagonal Sectumsempra that he vainly hoped would rend the madwoman in two.

No such luck, of course. Not a single spell landed, and several sailed straight past Bellatrix and off into the distance.

"Why, little Sev!" Bellatrix cackled, sending a jet of green light shooting just over Snape's shoulder. "You're not half as pathetic as I thought! And here I was convinced you only knew how to play with your little potions…."

It was time to stop playing, Snape thought. Plucking a dark curse from memory, he incanted the spell under his breath—too complex to do silently—as he whipped out the correct wand motion. With a low, evil-sounding hiss, the ground beneath Bellatrix's feet cracked open, loosing a billow of black smoke.

But Bellatrix was too fast and too good to let the hellish chasm get to her. She danced away from the splitting earth, arcing her wand as she went to clear the air of the toxic vapors. The crack continued to pursue her, but apparently Bellatrix had read the same obscure Dark Arts tomes as Snape. In between Shield Charms to ward off Snape's additional curses and hexes, Snape heard her utter the counter-curse. A golden light burst forth from her wand, resealing the crack and banishing the poisonous cloud.

"Ooh!" Bellatrix sang out as she returned to hurling out offensive spells. "Someone's been naughty! That's a nasty spell, Sev, bet your precious Dumbledore doesn't approve of that one!"

They were locked in a stalemate. That much was painfully apparent to Snape; they were too evenly matched. If only he'd taken a few minutes to contact the headmaster….

But no, with a deranged Bellatrix he wouldn't have risked it. He'd half-expected to find the boy already in pieces when he arrived.

He risked a quick glance in the direction where Potter had fled, hoping beyond hope that he would see neither hide nor hair of the boy.

But that, of course, wasn't the case. Because Potter was no longer behind the stump. He was crawling stealthily through the grass toward Bellatrix, something gripped tightly in his right fist.

And in spite of all the expletives that could have easily risen to mind at that sight, all Snape could think was that James Potter's son would, without a single doubt, be a bloody Gryffindor.

XXXXX

Harry's heart was racing. He knew that he should have listened to the Professor, especially since this whole mess was his fault. If he'd just listened, if he hadn't insisted on following a bunch of kids into the woods to meet some mysterious witch who supposedly liked children….

He groaned to himself. He felt so stupid now.

He was already feeling like he'd run a marathon or something, between all that the witch Bellatrix had put him through and the awful tension when Snape had arrived, when it had seemed like the Professor was going to let him go through another round of torture. He'd seemed so unperturbed that Harry was certain he'd be in agony for hours while the witch tried to get a reaction out of Snape.

But that had proved to be a feint, thankfully. It had been weird to hear Snape in his head as he had, but the source of the voice had been unmistakable. Harry could just tell. And as soon as he felt the Professor in his mind, he knew that he wasn't alone.

He'd intended to run a lot farther than the stump at the edge of the clearing. With his heart pounding and his body trembling so terribly, he'd been prepared to run all the way back to the house in Spinner's End.

But it had felt like terrible cowardice to leave the Professor there all alone, facing off against the scary witch. The spells they were throwing at each other sizzled and hissed something awful, and Harry was terrified of what would happen to the Professor if he was hit by even one of them.

He'd paid close attention to the conversation between the two. He was completely baffled by half of what they said, but he could follow along well enough to pick out some critical details. Snape and the witch obviously knew each other—and the witch was Malfoy's sister-in-law! Not only that, but she was an escaped criminal, and she was somehow involved with Voldemort, the wizard who'd killed his parents. And she'd learned how to turn into a poisonous spider! There was no way he was leaving Snape to deal with someone that terrible all by himself.

He wanted to do something, anything, to help the Professor, even after the Professor had screamed at him to leave. But he didn't know what to do. So he'd continued to cower behind the stump, carefully watching where the spells ricocheted and landed so that if they started to come closer to him, he could back up even further to a safer place.

After what felt like hours, though, it was clear to Harry that the two were pretty evenly matched. In fact, it looked to him like the witch was holding off some, maybe even playing with the Professor. She wasn't casting nearly as many spells as the Professor, and she was smiling a lot more than he was.

In contrast, the Professor looked grimly determined. His black robes flared around him like wings as he worked incantation after incantation, sending bright jets of light flying toward the woman. His brow had furrowed deeply, and his eyes were burning with concentration.

He couldn't just cower any longer. Harry looked around desperately, searching for inspiration, and almost immediately his eyes alighted on a few misshapen rocks lodged in the ground. An idea—brazen and terrifying—formed in his mind, and he quickly pried the rocks loose.

He'd seen the Professor's quick wandwork and keen reflexes. It would only take a half a second, just one little misstep on the witch's part, and Snape would gain the upper hand and finish this. So if he could just chuck a rock at her, maybe he could knock her in the head and stagger her a bit so that the Professor could get the jump on her.

The problem was that he was awful at throwing things. Dudley had teased him incessantly about it, calling him a "Nancy boy" and "wimp". And in that instance, Harry really couldn't argue. It was usually faster for him to walk over to someone and hand an object to them than for him to try to toss it.

He'd have to get closer. And that meant braving all those crazy spells.

Sucking in a deep breath, Harry pressed himself to the ground, still gripping the sandy rocks tightly in his fist, and he began to army-crawl his way forward, just a few inches at a time, so he didn't draw extra attention to himself. He made sure to keep himself totally flattened against the ground, as small as possible.

Thankfully, Bellatrix was too occupied with Snape's mad spellcasting to notice his approach. Harry caught the Professor's eye, and the fury he saw there was not promising.

But he was committed to this. So he continued to press forward, his heart hammering harder with each inch he gained. Just a little further, he thought. He was just ten feet away now, close enough that he might be able to throw. But he would only get one chance, he thought, because then surely she'd turn around and cast that awful, torturous spell on him again, and all would be lost….

His palms were sweaty. He could feel the graininess of the dirt against his palm, mixing with the sweat to become mud. And there was something else rising in him too, something that wasn't quite an emotion in and of itself, but a force that seemed linked to them somehow…. It seemed to be wrapping itself around the rocks, enrobing them in a pulsating, nervous force.

Harry pushed himself up and whipped the rock forward. The irregular chunk sailed out with more force and speed than was natural; it was as if it had been launched from a sling. And it struck its mark with an audible impact.

And, just as Harry had hoped, the blow to the witch's head was enough. She lurched forward, thrown off balance by the impact, and Snape took that moment of disorientation to launch a glowing bolt of red light at her. The spell struck her square in the chest and she tumbled to the ground, stiff as a board.

Harry scrambled back toward the woods just in case, not trusting that the witch would stay down.

"Stay!" Snape barked, his tone so full of venom that it set Harry's heart pumping again. He thought very briefly of running off into the woods, but he knew that was a foolish idea on its face. Harry was already in enough trouble, it seemed. No need to make it any worse.

Snape wasted no time staring at the witch, Harry noticed. He immediately set to work muttering a number of spells over her. First he called up the woman's wand and pocketed it in his robes, then set to casting a number of cascading, brightly-colored spells over her.

Harry watched in awe as, before his eyes, the woman's stiff body rose up and began to shrink and darken, contorting and rippling until instead of a pallid witch floating in the air, there was a palm-sized black spider with red markings on its back.

Snape twirled his wand and conjured a large glass jar out of thin air, complete with an airtight lid. The jar opened and swallowed the stunned spider, closing tightly once the arachnid was contained.

That wasn't the end of it, though. Snape didn't pause once in his chain of spells. He started muttering strange words that Harry couldn't understand, things that made even more colorful spells blossom out of the tip of Snape's wand. Gold cascaded over the jar, then midnight blue, then a veined, shimmering green. Harry watched, transfixed, as Snape uttered another dozen or so spells before, finally satisfied, he snared the jar and tucked it firmly under his arm.

And then he swung his gaze back to Harry, his jaw clenched and his lips pressed together so hard that they'd turned white. Wordlessly, he crooked a single finger at the boy, beckoning him forward.

Harry felt as if his bones had disappeared and his body had turned to jelly. He'd crossed a lot of lines, he realized. A lot of big, important lines. And Snape didn't seem to be the forgiving type. He'd already pressed the man as far as he could go.

Which meant that Harry was going to be sent away. Oh God, he thought, Snape's going to call Dumbledore straight away. He's going to make me pack my bags, and then he's going to complain about how terrible and disobedient I am. No one's going to want me. They're going to have to ship me to an orphanage.

Harry stumbled forward, nearly tripping in the grass a few times, and then, just a scant few feet from the man, his legs seemed to give way and he did fall.

He expected an impatient growl, or a biting comment, or for the Professor to simply start yelling.

But the man did nothing of the sort. He knelt at Harry's side, his calloused hands slipping beneath Harry's arms to lift him up from the ground. Harry trembled a little, feeling the strong urge to recoil from the Professor's touch, but the Professor held him firmly enough that Harry knew he wasn't going anywhere.

"Are you hurt?" Snape demanded quietly.

Harry shook his head frantically.

Snape took Harry by the chin and studied his face closely, his expression one of intense concentration. The fury was nowhere to be found; the Professor looked perfectly neutral now. But Harry was certain that his wrath was just buried, and that the minute they returned to the house it would come pouring out like magma out of a volcano. He'd seen it before with Uncle Vernon.

Apparently satisfied, Snape turned his attention to Harry's limbs. His fingertips brushed lightly against the places on Harry's bare arms where the rope had chafed the skin raw. The Professor heaved a sigh but said nothing, instead straightening up.

Still holding the spider jar, Snape took Harry by the arm and pulled him close, closer than he ever had when they'd traveled together. Harry pressed his whole body against the black fabric of the man's clothes, feeling slightly comforted by the texture and the faint scent of laundry soap. Harry wished he could stay in that moment forever, the moment when, after the terror of the deranged witch, he finally felt safe again.

The moment before the Professor yelled at him and punished him, then sent him far away forever. Maybe back to the Dursleys, Harry thought with a shudder, even though they certainly wouldn't want him back.

The world started to squeeze and distort around Harry, and within seconds they were back at the house in Spinner's End, standing in the sitting room.

Snape released him abruptly, pressing him toward the loveseat. "Sit," he commanded, his tone positively glacial.

And then that moment of safety and comfort was over, lost forever. And Harry was certain he would never have another like it as long as he lived.


	8. Aftermath

Snape paused for a moment before his mantle, trying to gather his thoughts. There was too much to do, too much to consider. How could he possibly prioritize?

The conjured jar containing the arachnid Bellatrix was secure for the time being, he thought. He'd cast every ward on it he knew, including a good number of anti-Apparition wards and a powerful Stasis Charm that would prevent her from changing forms. He had an idea of where to keep her until he could decide on her fate, but securing her in the basement was not the most important thing at present.

Perhaps best to contact Albus…. But Snape had his reservations about that particular course of action, selfish though they were. He did not know how Albus would react. If the headmaster lost confidence in him—or worse, for some deranged reason believed him to be involved in Bellatrix's escape—he did not know where that would leave him. Certainly many years had passed since his trial, and potions masters were difficult to engage, but he knew that his sordid past was still prevalent in the minds of many parents, not to mention Ministry officials.

And if the headmaster decided he was incompetent… well, it was only Dumbledore's considerable influence that was keeping him from a cozy cell in Azkaban. And if word of any of this got out, even Dumbledore's support might not be enough. The Ministry might jump to conclusions, as usual, and decide that an ex-Death Eater was as good a scapegoat as any for this little fiasco. Because Magical Law Enforcement certainly wasn't about to publicly own up to their incompetence in allowing a high-security criminal to escape.

Bellatrix's breakout hadn't even been reported, he thought. There had been nothing in the Daily Prophet. So the Ministry was trying to keep things under wraps. That, or they hadn't even realized that Bellatrix's cell was empty—likely, he thought, since most of the prison's day-to-day affairs were managed by Dementors. Whatever the case, the whole mess was still under wraps.

And Potter was safe, however hard he'd tried to make himself into a target. The little fool…. If he'd not been there, Snape could have dispatched of Bellatrix much more quickly. As it was, he'd decided to exhibit a great deal of restraint and precision in the hopes that the duel wouldn't get too out-of-hand. He'd been pretending to give it his all to lull her into a false sense of security, hoping that she would eventually grow overconfident and careless. Not that Bellatrix was a weak opponent in any sense, especially since his Legilimency was of no use against an accomplished Occlumens such as her. Yet he'd hoped that his patience and strategy might allow him to win out and break their deadlock.

But no, the little Gryffindor brat had decided to lob a rock at the witch's head, of all things. It had worked, at least, but Snape still shuddered to think of what curses an enraged Bellatrix might have unloaded on him if his little stunt had failed.

The boy. Yes, Potter was his priority now. Everything else could wait.

Stashing the glass jar on top of the bookshelf, Snape returned his attention to the pale boy who sat, arms wrapped tightly over himself, hunched on the loveseat. With a flick of his wand, Snape transformed the coffee table into a stool and seated himself in front of his ward. Another flick and he'd summoned four potions from his storage cupboards.

"Sir," the boy stammered softly, his voice broken.

Snape merely shot him an icy glare in response before proceeding to push the boy's sleeves up.

"Sir, I'm so sorry for—"

"Silence," Snape hissed. "Now is not the time for your pathetic blathering."

The boy flinched. Snape ignored him.

"What spells did Bellatrix subject you to?" Snape kept his tone professional, clinical, as he drew his wand and began healing the minor abrasions.

"I—I dunno," the boy stammered, sounding as if he were on the verge of tears.

Snape growled to himself. Of course the boy wouldn't know. Foolish of him to ask. He finished healing the boy's arms before turning back to the potions he'd summoned. He selected a vial containing a light-blue substance, a Calming Draught, and turned back to the boy. He uncorked the potion and pressed it to the boy's lips.

"Drink," he commanded, tipping the contents into the boy's mouth.

The boy sputtered at first but quickly complied, downing the whole thing without a word of protest.

Snape drew a deep, calming breath, then tipped the boy's chin up so he could meet the child's eyes. Those green depths, he saw, were filled with more fear and guilt than he would have thought possible. He swore mentally, vowing to make Bellatrix pay tenfold for every bit of agony she'd inflicted. "Potter," he said quietly, fighting to keep his voice as calm and even as possible, "I need to know exactly what happened. The fastest and easiest way will be for me to see the events in your mind. Is that acceptable?"

Potter swallowed thickly, his fear hitching toward panic. Apparently the draught was not working quickly enough. "You want to read my mind?" he stuttered, squirming back slightly on the loveseat.

Snape tightened his grip on the boy's chin. He desperately wanted to snap that he'd just said that and scold the idiot child for wasting his time. But he knew the boy had just suffered a trauma and allowances had to be made. So he forced himself to draw another calming breath.

"Yes. It will not hurt and it will be quick." Snape watched the indecision flickering in the boy's eyes. He was about to Legilimize Potter without his consent when the child finally spoke up.

"Okay," he whispered.

Without further invitation, Snape pressed into the boy's mind, questing for the memories of that morning. Unsurprisingly, he easily found what he was looking for floating near the surface. He ignored the prominent memories—of pain and terror laced with Bellatrix's high-pitched laugh—and instead waded back to the boy playing quietly in the yard. Snape pressed through, watching as the boy scrambled off after his errant little pikeman.

Stupid boy, Snape thought to himself as he watched Potter traipse off with the merry band of children. He knew the boy could sense his disapproval. After he'd been warned, after he'd been explicitly told to stay put…. And the nonsense about enchanted toys. Really, how gullible was the boy?

He pressed on through the timeline, switching his focus to loose ends that would need to be tied with. Yes, the children would have to be seen to… though it looked as if Bellatrix had already made an effort to cover her tracks. He recognized the spells she'd cast—Obliviate and what appeared to be an Imperius Curse. Still, he would have to find a way to discretely check on them and make certain that any traces of their interactions with the fugitive were obliterated.

But those were fine details, ones that would have to be sorted out when he finally decided how to deal with this. Because he was not entirely certain that it was wise to go through official channels at this point, or even through Dumbledore.

Snape tucked those thoughts away for later, pressing on in the boy's memories until he could see and taste the pain of Bellatrix's Cruciatus curse through Harry's mind. Even Snape, who'd seen more than his fair share of horrors during his career as a Death Eater, had to shudder at the violence and unadulterated terror woven into fabric of those scenes.

He counted bouts of the curse, feeling his physical body tighten every time Bellatrix raised her wand. Five. The boy had endured five rounds, when most full-grown wizards could barely stand one….

Snape prepared to withdraw then, having learned all he'd needed for the time being, but a glimpse of the boy's wandering thoughts caught his attention. Withdrawing back to the very surface of the boy's mind, Snape felt the burgeoning worry that was overtaking all of Potter's conscious thought. He was fixated on his punishment for his latest transgression, frantically comparing this act to all the things he'd done while staying with his relatives.

Snape saw the boy being thrust into a tiny, claustrophobic room, a man's deep voice booming behind him, of a small Harry weeding out in a well-kept garden, struggling to lift the large bags of mulch he was using, of Harry cowering as his horse-faced aunt shrieked at him, brandishing a wooden spoon as she gestured wildly to something charred and smoking on the kitchen countertop.

There was no need to delve any deeper. From just those few insights, Snape was able to piece together the main elements of the boy's home life, if it could be called that. The fear and misery pulsated palpably in every episode, and now the boy was certain that he would be relegated to some cupboard, or beaten within an inch of his life.

Snape withdrew, trying to settle what he'd just learned within his own mind. Well, he'd certainly intended to chastise the boy for his reckless, irresponsible behavior, but the fears running rampant in Potter's mind were ludicrous. The boy would need to be reassured in some capacity… Dumbledore would not be happy to see the boy whipped into such a frenzied state, and even the Calming Draught could only calm the physiological symptoms of the boy's panic.

If Snape ended up calling Dumbledore. He still hadn't decided on that matter.

The potions master sighed, running a hand through his hair. The boy was still staring at him blankly, his eyes shining with apprehension.

Best to finish dosing the boy, he decided. Gathering up the three remaining vials, Snape conjured a glass from his cupboards and began measuring out portions of the three concoctions. Once he'd titrated the mixture to his satisfaction, he swirled it three times to combine and passed it to the boy, pressing it into the child's too-cold hands.

"You've had quite a shock," Snape stated, once again striving for his most clinical tone. "I've already given you something to calm your nerves. That will help with any residual discomfort, and it will help your body heal from what you've endured. I've also added something to help you sleep."

The boy stared at the glass in his hands blankly, as if uncertain of what to do with it.

"Drink," Snape ordered, his tone notching toward frosty.

After a second more of hesitation, the boy obeyed, shooting back the glass and pulling a face as the substance hit his tongue. "Ugh," he muttered, shuddering. Then, shyly, not lifting his eyes, he mumbled, "Thanks, Professor."

Snape snorted disdainfully and vanished the glass from the boy's hands. Then, working the complex wand-pattern required for the spell, he transformed the loveseat into a small bed before summoning a blanket from his bedroom. He tossed the blanket to Potter and, standing, returned the stool he'd been sitting on to a coffee table. Finally, he lifted his wand above his head and uttered the series of low incantations that would adjust the wards correctly so that there would be no repeats of the morning's incidents.

"There," he announced once the walls of his home had ceased glimmering a bluish-gold. He pinned the boy with a hard glare. "Lie down and rest," he commanded. "I've business to attend to. The wards will not allow you to leave the interior of the house for the time being, and I doubt you'll wake with that potion in you, but call if you have need of me. And do not, on pain of death, think to remove yourself from that bed unless it is to relieve yourself or for an emergency. Do I make myself perfectly clear, Mr. Potter?"

The boy nodded vigorously. When Snape arched a displeased brow at him, the boy stammered out a feeble, "Yes, sir."

Snape continued to glare at the boy until, finally taking the hint, he folded his legs up onto the makeshift bed and started to settle himself beneath the blanket.

Snape's glare deepened into a scowl. "Shoes," he snapped. "And your glasses, you idiot boy."

The child flinched and hastened to pull off his trainers, letting them thud carelessly onto the floor, before removing and folding his glasses. Snape reached out wordlessly, plucking them from the boy's hand to set them on the coffee table. He continued to watch as the boy nestled into the blanket, his lids slipping down like curtains over his worried green eyes.

Snape waited until he was certain that the boy had fallen into a deep slumber, then heaved a deep sigh. What was he going to do? He cast his eyes back to the disgusting spider in the enchanted jar. He didn't doubt his spellwork, but he knew it was best to take no chances with Bellatrix….

Besides, he thought with a grim smile, he had just the place to keep her.

It took Snape several minutes to unlock all his warding spells on the door leading to the cellar. Even before Dumbledore had forced the Potter boy on him, Snape had been in the habit of keeping this particular part of his home sealed up tight. He certainly didn't have as impressive a collection of Dark Artifacts as, say, the Malfoys, but for a half-blooded potions master teaching at a public school, the items he'd gathered and kept for study were quite remarkable .

Most he kept in spelled display cases, behind layers of wards and enchanted glass, just as a safety precaution. Dark magic was notoriously volatile, given to leaking out and corrupting all it touched, and Snape had no desire to see his home become any more foreboding by carelessness on his part.

There was also the matter of Albus Dumbledore's infrequent visits. The man only ever came in the summers, and rarely at that, preferring to set tea dates in his office when it was time for Snape to give him updates. But still, Snape had every intention of keeping his little menagerie a secret, knowing that Dumbledore certainly wouldn't approve.

Though sometimes, Snape thought, he was certain that Dumbledore did know. The man's intuition and resourcefulness were sources to be reckoned with.

Snape passed by the first few objects—a glove that, when donned, compelled the hand to commit murder through any possible means until it was removed, a goblet that unfailingly poisoned the drinker, pearl earrings that would fill the wearer's ears with agonized whispers of dead loved ones. The kinds of things that would be consigned to oblivion should any Ministry officials get their hands on them.

Not that Snape intended to use them for anything but research, of course. But his past alone would be reason enough for a steep sentence, should these particular possessions ever come to light.

Snape reached the mahogany cupboard standing at the far side of the cellar. It was one of his most prized possessions, a Dark Artifact by definition considering the cost of its creation. Not that he had paid the price himself. It was an acquisition from his early days as a Death Eater, a gift for services rendered. And distasteful as Snape found the origins of the object, he was far too pragmatic to give it up when it was so dead useful.

It had, after all, been bound specifically to him through an obscure and obscene ritual involving ancient blood magic. Now it was nearly impenetrable as a vault at Gringotts, since not only was it warded against penetration, but objects stored in it ended up in a small pocket of space that existed only to Snape himself. No other being on the face of the planet, not even the Dark Lord himself, could force it open. It was rare and powerful magic, and for that Snape was unwilling to part with it.

Snape ran a hand lovingly down the panel, smiling faintly to himself before touching the handle and feeling the whole thing come blazing to life as it recognized the blood in his veins, and his free, unadulterated will that it should open. The magic thrummed almost pleasantly in his fingers.

He pulled the cabinet open and briefly swept his gaze over the contents contained within. He did not have many things that he felt needed to be kept so carefully. A few potent potions that had taken a great deal of time, care, and expense to produce, the kinds of brews he kept on hand for very desperate situations. He also kept his rarest ingredients here—a full unicorn horn, a few phoenix and griffin feathers, a vial of mermaid tears, a jar of dragon heartstring. A few valuable grimoires on the Darkest Arts passed down to him by his mother, the entirety of his inheritance from the Prince family. And a handful of photographs and letters from… well, her.

At times it felt almost like sacrilege to him, allowing those precious keepsakes to be kept in that cabinet. And now, to force those few memories to share a space with the vile creature he held tucked under his arm….

He sighed to himself. It was all in his head, he told himself, and he would not let himself be swayed by foolish notions of closeness and taint. They were highly impractical. He valued those memories of Lily more than anything else he possessed, and it was only reasonable that he should secure them where they could not be damaged or destroyed, either by accident or design. So they would remain there, safe, just as Bellatrix would remain there.

Still, Snape chose to clear a space on the bottom shelf where nothing personal lay. Then he lifted the jar and, staring at the spider contained within, he murmured, "I do hope your accommodations are acceptable, Bella. Nothing compared to Azkaban, I'm certain, but don't worry. We'll see you returned there shortly."

Snape wasn't certain his words had penetrated the glass at all, or that Bellatrix was even in a state to understand them. But it felt good all the same, after all the trouble she'd caused, to lord his power over her now, to reminder that he had absolute control over her fate.

He could just kill her, he thought, and no one would be the wiser.

Except they would, in the case that the truth ever got out. And then… he did not know what it would look like. A double-cross, perhaps, him helping a notorious Death Eater escape, one who'd already been unstable and who'd become further unhinged during her stay in Azkaban. An ensuing skirmish, perhaps one that forced Snape's hand and foiled his plans of clandestinely reassembling the Dark Lord's followers…. Yes, the Ministry would come up with something along those lines. They would not see it as the delivery of justice.

And death, he thought, was far too merciful a fate for Bellatrix Lestrange. A great deal of resentment still festered in Snape for the woman, who'd tried to drag him into that hellhole of a prison with her, who, even before the fall of the Dark Lord, had constantly belittled and undermined him, who had resented his rising status within the ranks of the Death Eaters. Who had never trusted him and sought to out him as a traitor at every turn. Who had cackled with pure delight the night that Lily Potter was to be slaughtered, who went on and on how the Mudblood would finally meet her well-deserved end. Who had scoffed at Snape's efforts to beg for clemency for the woman he loved.

Snape slammed the cupboard door shut, his breathing ragged. Now was not the time to cave to petty revenge fantasies, he reminded himself. He had much greater worries.

His standing with the headmaster, for one. Had Bellatrix not indulged her sadistic impulses, Potter could very well have been killed. Snape had allowed him to wander off, unsupervised, into the woods, where any crazed lunatic or ex-Death Eater might have made quick work of him. It was careless in the extreme, and once the headmaster learned of his grave mistake, there was no telling where he would find himself.

Oh, certainly he might finally get out of babysitting the insolent Potter spawn, but at what cost? Snape prided himself on being the best, at being discreet and intelligent and analytical. His services as spy and protector had been the currency with which he'd bought the headmaster's protection. And protection only, he knew, because trust was a near impossibility. Albus Dumbledore would never trust him. The headmaster might trust his self-interest, his unwillingness to put himself in an untenable position, but he would never believe that Snape was truly reformed. The headmaster's frequent little tests were enough to make that abundantly clear.

Still, he thought, what hope did he have of resolving this without Albus' considerable influence? There had been no reports of the escape yet. But Albus would be one of the first informed, especially given the Ministry's reliance on his talents. Fudge might even expect the old headmaster to recapture Bellatrix himself.

If Snape allowed Albus to take all the credit, that could buy him a significant political favor from the Ministry. And one could never have too many chips to cash in. That might be enough to mitigate Snape's own carelessness with the precious Boy-Who-Lived, enough to keep Dumbledore from deciding he was totally worthless.

The headmaster certainly wasn't about to keep him around for his extraordinary teaching abilities, the potions master thought with a small, bitter smirk. They didn't see eye-to-eye on instruction methods, as Albus continually chose to remind him that constructive criticisms and insults were not one and the same.

Snape ascended the stairs and began re-warding the door.

If he hid this from Dumbledore, he reasoned as he uttered the familiar incantations, and the truth ever came out, he would lose any semblance of faith the headmaster had in him. And he simply could not risk that. Besides, Dumbledore would be far more efficient in mopping up after this little fiasco. There were all those damned children to see to, not to mention their parents, and any other traces of Bellatrix's presence. And on top of that, handling her contact with the Malfoys, and navigating that quagmire….

Snape could feel a migraine coming on. He reached into his robes and fished around for the Headache Draught he kept on hand, the kind he'd brewed specifically for the schoolyear. It had been a necessity, given the number of potions accidents and his general loathing for children. When his fingers finally closed around the thin vial, he drew it out and downed it with practiced ease.

Once the dull throbbing began to recede, Snape drew a few bracing breaths. There really was only one course of action at this point, he knew, and it meant owning up to an unacceptable degree of carelessness. Oh, Dumbledore would be kind about it. The man would shake his head sadly and try to accept the blame for having entrusted such a delicate task to Snape. But he would see how unreliable the ex-Death Eater truly was, so hapless that he could not even keep his eye on a child for a week.

Best to face the music, he thought, stalking back to his study.

As he crossed the sitting room, he cast a glance back at the sleeping boy on the transfigured bed. The tousled black mop poking out from beneath the blanket. He sighed. Albus would know what to say to the child. He'd probably just scared the boy half to death, especially after what he'd seen in the boy's mind. Well, if this was to be the beginning of his fall from grace, he could at least try to squeeze in one final good deed for Lily's son. He would be certain to bring up the topic of guardianship once again, and force a promise from the old man that he would never send the boy back to his horrendous relatives.

But that was a discussion for later, once things had been sorted. He made his way quickly to his study and closed the door behind him, then paced over to his fireplace. Grabbing a pinch of Floo powder, he enunciated "Headmaster's office" and tossed the pinch into the hearth. A jade-green fire roared up.

Wasting no time, Snape knelt down and stuck his head in, feeling the familiar tickle as the magic flames licked the sides of his face. He knew he always looked ridiculous doing this, one of the reasons he rarely made Floo calls. His hair hung in curtains around his face, and he couldn't help but resent being put in such an awkward position.

"Albus!" Snape called, scanning the office as best he could for any sign of the old man. With his luck, this would be one of the days he was visiting the Ministry, or strolling about the castle and grounds.

But luck was on his side.

"Severus?" The headmaster hurried over to the fireplace to better speak with the potions master. "What is it? I was just about to contact you, in fact. There is a situation—"

"It's an emergency, Albus," Snape cut him off. "Can you come?"

The headmaster's normally placid face rippled with concern, and his normally soft eyes went hard. "Is Harry all right?"

"Fine," Snape bit out. "But the situation is time-sensitive."

Dumbledore nodded solemnly. "I'll step right through."

In just seconds the headmaster was dusting off his periwinkle robes in Snape's study, his concerned gaze seeking out that of his potions master.

"What has happened, Severus?" Dumbledore asked quietly.

Snape drew a deep breath. "Might I assume that the situation you wished to discuss involves a certain Bellatrix Lestrange?"

"She has been in contact?" Dumbledore demanded, his tone unusually sharp.

Snape rubbed the bridge of his nose, debating the wisdom of another dose of his headache potion. If he accidentally knocked himself into a coma, he thought, he wouldn't have to deal with this mess…. "After a fashion," he muttered. He drew in a calming breath. "I fear I've failed you, Albus."

And Snape proceeded explain every detail of the day's events.

XXXXX

It was late afternoon by the time the situation had been mostly rectified. Using Snape's memory of what he'd seen in Harry's mind, Dumbledore had been able to slip discreetly around the neighborhood and verify that Bellatrix had, in fact, cleaned up after herself quite thoroughly. The headmaster had banished all the strange trinkets she'd handed out, which hadn't been much trouble, given that the children had no memory of acquiring them in the first place.

After that they'd both taken up residence in the sitting room, mostly so that they could keep eyes on the still-sleeping Potter. Snape had prepared tea and biscuits at Dumbledore's request, even managing to hide the disparaging look that automatically wrinkled his features. He hardly thought afternoon tea was an appropriate way of discussing what was to be done with the murderer and Voldemort-fanatic he currently had locked away in his basement, but he didn't dare to contradict the headmaster.

At least the old man hadn't tried to offer him a lemon sherbet yet.

Snape tapped a finger against his porcelain cup, trying to rein in his agitation. Things were under control once more. Potter seemed to be wrapped in an easy sleep, which Snape knew was the best thing for the boy at the moment. Yes, they had to figure out how to handle Bellatrix. Her escape had only been officially noted that very morning, of course, and it was troubling that she'd been able to find Harry and lure him out so easily. But for the moment she was secure as could be, and Dumbledore had even offered to remove her from the premises to alleviate Snape's disquietude.

But what weighed on Snape the most heavily in that moment was the role he himself had played in the day's fiasco. Dumbledore had been all business, as usual, when it came to clearing things up. Together they had analyzed every detail of the conundrum, from Bellatrix's newly-acquired ability to her possible contact with the Malfoys, to the Ministry's potential role in delaying information about her escape. Not once had the conversation become remotely personal.

But now, Snape sensed, it was time to own up to his mistakes. Ignoring them or denying them would do no good; he was many things, but not a weak man, not in that respect. And especially not before Dumbledore. He owed the man more than that.

"I should have modified the wards," he said quietly, before taking another sip of his tea. "Potter never should have been able to wander off as he did. I never should have let the boy out of my sight."

"Severus…." Dumbledore set his own cup down on the coffee table, his eyes strangely gentle.

Snape could not bear to hold them. If there was one thing worse than Dumbledore's anger, it was his pity.

"You couldn't have known. Today's circumstances have been nothing less than extraordinary. And Harry is a curious child, as we all were. He was tempted by the promises of his comrades, and in this case it led him straight into the arms of Bellatrix. That she was even able to escape confinement is nothing short of a miracle. You couldn't have known, and you cannot be faulted for not locking the boy up." Dumbledore took a moment to examine the plate of biscuits before him, and made a bit of a show of selecting one. "I confess, I myself would have allowed the child the liberty of playing outdoors, had I been in your position."

Snape sighed heavily. "My sole duty was to protect him—"

"And you have done so marvelously. You rushed to his aid. You captured a dangerous witch. You brought him back here and tended to him quite well. He looks comfortable, even peaceful, and that is no small thing considering the atrocities the poor boy has suffered. You need not blame yourself for this mishap, Severus."

"I was careless," Snape bit out, his hand tightening around his cup. "Foolish, I would dare say. I knew that Lucius had inquired about the boy. I knew that these sorts of dangers would plague him, considering his personal history. If I hadn't arrived, if Bellatrix had decided that she would rather kill the boy and be done with it, he would not be here now—"

"What point is there in dwelling on what could have been?" Dumbledore asked gently, breaking off a piece of his biscuit and dunking it in his tea.

Snape closed his eyes and focused on re-centering himself. His emotions were getting out of hand. "I never believed I could be a decent guardian for the boy, Albus, but clearly I am incapable of even acting as his protector! He is eight, scarcely of age to be of any real trouble, and yet I have failed him—"

"You have not," Dumbledore reassured him. "Harry is alive and well; I dare say that cannot be considered failure."

"But it easily—"

"Harry is staying on the upper floor, is he not?" Dumbledore inquired suddenly, his tone pleasant, as if he were making small talk.

Snape barely contained his huff of annoyance. He could tell that the old man was prepared to engage in some silly game with him, and he did not have the patience. "He is. But the matter at hand—"

"Tell me, would you blame yourself if Harry had tripped and fallen down the stairs and broken his neck? Would you curse yourself for not having removed the staircase?"

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," Snape muttered. "This was no unforeseen tragedy—"

"Ah, on the contrary. You think it was foreseeable that Bellatrix Lestrange would become an Animagus, escape Azkaban, and use a handful of rumors and murmurings to track the boy here?"

Snape scowled at the ground. Worse, perhaps, than having Dumbledore blame him, was realizing how quickly he'd spiraled, how easily his insecurities overcame him. Perhaps, too, remembering how unfailingly magnanimous Dumbledore was, something that never failed to twist Severus' own guilt tighter into his stomach. It would have been easier to resent the man for his lack of real trust if the headmaster were less… well, good.

"Ah, it seems that your young ward is stirring," Dumbledore remarked, his gentle eyes moving beyond Snape to the place where Harry lay.

Snape flinched at the way the headmaster said your young ward. The boy was a guest in the potions master's home, nothing more. This was a waystation for the Boy Who Lived, and Snape was nothing to him, just a glorified babysitter.

Both wizards rose from their places and approached the boy slowly. Dumbledore took a seat at the foot of the bed; Snape transfigured the coffee table back into a stool and seated himself, careful to retrieve the boy's glasses before doing so.

Harry blinked a few times at Snape, clearly disoriented. "Professor?" he croaked.

Snape summoned a glass of water and offered it to the boy, using a hand to leverage him into a sitting position. The boy nursed the glass gratefully as Snape settled the boy's glasses back onto his nose.

"Professor Dumbledore is here as well," Snape murmured, mostly because he was unsure of what to say and hoped desperately that he could merely pass the baton.

"Harry," Dumbledore greeted the boy warmly, patting his leg through the blanket. "Good to see you up and about. How are you feeling?"

The boy continued to blink owlishly, his gaze darting between Snape and Dumbledore. "I—er—I feel better now." He swallowed thickly. "Thank you again, Professor, for—for the medicine. It worked really well."

Snape dipped his head in acknowledgment, once again at a loss for how to respond. Didn't the boy realize that being provided a few remedies like that was a given?

Not likely, he reminded himself, a few of the memories he'd seen in the boy's head flashing to mind.

The boy struggled to free himself from the blanket and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He made to stand up, but Snape placed a hand on his shoulder to restrain him.

"You need to use the restroom, Potter?" he asked quietly. He didn't fully trust the boy on his feet, especially after such an ordeal. The potions had likely restored him, but it would likely be at least a few days before the boy was fully recovered.

"No, sir," the boy mumbled. "I—I just thought I should go… you know, pack."

Snape's brow crumpled. "Pack?" he inquired, shooting a puzzled glance at Dumbledore.

"Harry," Dumbledore said, shifting on the bed so he was sitting closer to the boy, "you are perfectly safe here now. Bellatrix has been dealt with, I promise you. You will not have to fear anything from her again. And as long as you remain with Professor Snape and do as he asks, no harm will come to you."

Now the boy wore an extremely confused expression. "I thought—aren't you sending me away?" His voice was very small, almost a whimper. "I—I know what you said… if I misbehaved—"

Snape heaved a sigh. "Potter, that is the last thing you should concern yourself with. Believe me, we will be discussing your lack of judgment and your disobedience, and you will be punished for that, but as I said earlier, today's events have been traumatic. Right now you need to lie back down."

The boy's wide eyes shifted back to Dumbledore. "You're not here to take me away?" he stammered.

Dumbledore shook his head. "No, Harry, of course not. Professor Snape told me what happened, and I came straight away to make certain you're all right. He was very concerned about you."

Snape shot the man a dirty look. Very concerned indeed. He'd been most interested in discussing the spider he'd locked away in his basement, not whether he'd coddled the insolent child sufficiently.

"It was my fault, though—"

"Harry," Dumbledore chided him gently, "you should have listened to Professor Snape today, but you are not to blame for that woman's deplorable actions. And you did not deserve to suffer so much."

Snape couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt. The boy thought he was so cold-hearted that he would be sent out into the cold when he was in this state? Perhaps he should have been a trifle less harsh with his threats.

"Lie down," Snape commanded, before the boy could go rambling on about being sent away. "How is your stomach? Do you think you could manage a meal?"

Harry swung his wide, surprised eyes back to Snape.

"Severus, perhaps I could leave you to tend Harry while I send out some correspondence? I believe the Minister should be informed…."

"You have a story prepared?" Snape murmured, holding the boy's gaze.

"I believe I can spin out something suitable, yes. Nothing implicating you in any heroics, as you requested."

Snape resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Dragging my name up would not implicate me in heroics, as you well know. Especially with the tale coming from you."

"Even so… perhaps I could take this troublesome spider with me before I return to Hogwarts?"

Snape at last broke eye contact with the boy and stood. "Finish that water, Potter," he commanded, turning his attention back to Dumbledore. "I'll be just a moment… I left her in the cellar."

"Just as well," Dumbledore mused. "One can never be too careful with Bellatrix."

Snape made the journey down as back as swiftly as he could, feeling the familiar prickle of shame and fear as he descended back into the musty depths. He did not like lying to Dumbledore, and this to him felt like a lie of omission.

But he was no longer a school boy, he reminded himself. And it was not as if he was harboring anything down there for a nefarious scheme. His interest in those objects was purely scholarly, apart from the cabinet, which he kept because of functionality. Dumbledore simply would not understand because he would believe Severus incapable of restraining himself. He would see it as temptation, pure and simple.

It was for that exact same reason that he was stuck teaching his blasted potions class year after year, watching children cringe and titter as they remarked upon all of the disgusting ingredients they had to work with. Or worse, having to deal with the aftermath of the nastiest students who liked to experiment when Snape's back was turned. And then he was always on the receiving end of Pomfrey's infamous Evil Eye, as if he were somehow responsible for the collective brainlessness of the adolescents he was forced to teach.

Snape finished re-warding his door just as Dumbledore appeared around the corner, a gentle smile on his lips.

"Harry thinks very highly of you," the older wizard remarked, his eyes twinkling from behind his spectacles. "He was just telling me how exceedingly fair and kind you've been—"

"Fair," Snape scathed. "We'll see how kind and fair he finds me after I've decided upon his punishment. Not only did he leave the yard, he disobeyed my explicit instructions to get himself away from this vile creature"—he thrust the jar into Dumbledore's hands—"and went so far as to try to distract her—"

"Rather courageous of him," Dumbledore beamed, "given what she did to him—"

"Courage! It was foolhardiness, a stunt that could have gotten him mangled or killed! He's not in Gryffindor yet, Albus, and I will not laud the boy for intentionally endangering his life, however noble his motivations may have been."

"Just don't be too hard on the boy, Severus," Dumbledore advised soberly. "Children are young and impressionable, as I'm sure you know—"

"I'm not going to flay the boy," Snape hissed. "I'm not even going to raise a hand to him. You should know better. He will, however, remember this lesson, because I will not have him testing the limits of my promise to his mother at every turn. I refuse to spend the remainder of my life chasing after a thoughtless, senseless, careless James Potter!"

Dumbledore seemed subdued. "Of course, Severus. Though I think it might be helpful to remember that the boy only stayed to help you—"

"And he would do well to learn," Snape shot back, "that he is a child, while I am a fully-grown and fully-trained adult sworn to protect him, not the other way around!"

Dumbledore looked as if he had much more to say, but in the end the older wizard only offered a kind smile. "I will see to this then," he said, lifting the jar slightly. "And I shall keep you informed of any new developments. If you need anything…."

"I will call or post an owl."

"Really, Severus, you should get one yourself. They're dead useful—"

"And insufferably noisy, and demanding, and one more responsibility that I do not care to take on, seeing as I've already had a child foisted onto me. I am perfectly content to make the trip to the post office. Shall I see you to the Floo?"

"I can find my own way. I believe your charge is in need of reassurance at the moment."

"About 'my' charge." Snape schooled his face into a completely neutral expression. This would be a calm discussion, he promised himself. He would not allow himself to lose his temper. "I've promised to keep him for the next week, Albus, but you've yet to propose an alternative guardian to his relatives. I can tolerate the boy, but I will not become his permanent guardian by default. So, who have you been considering?"

Dumbledore's lips pursed into a small, concerned frown. "Ah, about that. It seems that Lucius has been rather diligent in his efforts to gain custody of Harry, and due to an overwhelming amount of political pressure the Minister is backtracking on his firm stance of opposition."

Snape's brow drew together in consternation, but he managed to keep his tone even. "Mm, I am so very surprised," he drawled, his sarcasm caustic. "If only we had seen this coming…."

"I am doing all within my power to manage the situation, Severus, but the truth of the matter is that it might be best to have official guardianship rest with his relatives—"

"Absolutely not," Snape hissed, his calm façade shattering. "Do you have any idea of how they treated the boy? Arabella was right; it is not a suitable home environment."

"We have few other options," Dumbledore sighed. "The blood wards I erected eight years ago require Harry to have hearth rights in the home in which his aunt resides, and I fear the only way to ensure that is to keep Petunia legally attached and obligated to Harry—"

"Surely there are other ways to protect the boy," Snape insisted. "The Fidelius Charm—"

"There are few wizarding families willing to live in absolute secrecy, even for the Boy Who Lived. We could erect wards, but none would hold a candle to the protection of Lily's sacrifice. You know this, Severus. Blood magic is, after all, the most potent there is."

"But he cannot live there, Albus. The boy deserves better. They locked him in a cupboard, you realize. They withheld food as a punishment."

"Harry has confided this in you?" Dumbledore asked curiously.

Snape snorted derisively. "No, the boy hasn't poured his soul out to me. I was perusing his memories of today and a few of his experiences with his relatives happened to be in proximity. You cannot in good conscience send him back to that."

Dumbledore sighed tiredly. "I would not, but as I said, I fear we have little choice. Petunia Dursley, like it or not, is the pinnacle of the sacrificial blood wards. Harry must spend two weeks out of the lunar year in her residence in order for them to remain in effect. They cannot be extended without some focal point related to Lily, either her love or love of her."

Snape fought back a cold sneer. "Ah, so I am the only viable choice. Either he will live with his revolting relatives, he will be snatched up by the likes of Lucius Malfoy, or he will spend the majority of his time here, my ward in all but name. I am gratified you have given me a choice in the matter, though."

"I am still seeking out other options, but Severus, surely you can see—"

"This is not about what I want! Yes, I would prefer my peace and quiet, of course I would, but I am telling you, Albus, that I am an unfit guardian for the boy! I have no experience raising children, and as you've pointed out numerous times over the years, I have no patience for them."

"But you've done well—"

"For one week, yes, I've kept the boy alive. But feeding the boy and seeing to it that he keeps himself from harm's way is vastly different from actually rearing a child. I know what you intend, don't think I don't. You've had this plotted out from the moment you sent me to collect the boy. But you cannot maneuver me into adopting the boy, do you hear me?"

"As I said before," Dumbledore announced, an air of finality in his words, "I do not doubt your capabilities, even in this. But as I've already promised, I will continue to look into the matter and attempt to identify all of our options."

"Do so," Snape suggested in a tone icier than he would usually allow himself to use with the headmaster. "I expect to be kept abreast of any new developments with that," he added, jabbing a finger at the jar, "as well as with Potter's situation." And with those words, Snape swept around Dumbledore. He'd had enough of this conversation. And besides, the boy hadn't had anything for lunch, and the last thing he needed to round out this thoroughly enjoyable day was a temper tantrum from a hungry, cranky Potter.


	9. Nightmares

Harry couldn't help but keep stealing worried glances up at the Professor. The man had seemed particularly grim and displeased ever since the headmaster had left—and with good reason, of course, Harry reminded himself angrily. He never should have left the yard, no matter what. He was stupid and foolish, and now the Professor would never consider letting him stay.

But still, for as awful as he'd been, the Professor hadn't seemed too furious. Not yet, at least. Sure, the man had been brusque, but he'd still given Harry plenty of medicine to make him feel better. Before dinner, when he'd started to have strange shooting pains in his limbs and his arms had begun to tremble, the man had summoned another set of potions right away from his lab, and in minutes Harry was feeling better again.

He was even letting Harry eat dinner with him now at the table, soup again—this time potato and ham, with thick slices of freshly baked white bread on the side.

Harry knew that he was in trouble, but it certainly didn't feel like he was. After all, the Professor hadn't smacked him yet, or locked him in his room, or started in on an awful rant like Uncle Vernon would have. Of course, Harry knew for sure that the Professor and his uncle were really nothing alike. The Professor had a lot of restraint, he knew, and that thought made him nervous, because he could easily be saving all of his ire up for the next day. Or for that night. Harry didn't know.

But the man had been so gentle earlier, he thought, asking after Harry and making him lie down and rest, and even deciding to let Harry stay for the time being instead of sending him away. Maybe his punishment wouldn't be too bad. Probably worse than cleaning out the flobberworm enclosure, he decided, since he'd really messed up bad this time, but nothing he couldn't handle.

Still... maybe he was only letting Harry stay because he had a truly horrific punishment in mind, something to make Harry pay for dragging him out into the woods where he'd nearly died at the hands of the deranged witch. He shot another nervous glance at the man, trying to judge by the lines of his face just how furious he was.

The Professor slammed his spoon down suddenly, startling Harry from his seat. The man's glittering black eyes pinned him with a look of annoyance. "If I were cruel enough to beat you, Potter, I would have done it by now. Sit and finish your supper, and stop looking at me like a puppy about to be kicked."

Harry blushed and forced himself to sit back down. "I—I didn't think you were going to beat me, sir," he mumbled, picking his spoon back up with his slightly-trembling hand.

"Oh? And pray tell what did you expect?"

Harry stirred the contents of his bowl absently as he tried to decide how best to answer. "Dunno," he mumbled.

Snape's nostrils flared and he huffed in irritation. "I know you are young, but you seem to have a decent grasp of the English language. Kindly demonstrate it by giving me complete and properly worded answers, or I will set you to copying the dictionary. Clear?"

Harry tried to swallow past the lump that he suddenly found lodged in his throat. "Yes, sir. I—I don't know what to expect, and I guess that's why I'm so nervous."

"Hmph." Snape did not sound impressed. "Well, you know that you blatantly disobeyed me twice and put yourself at risk, which are substantial infractions. Your punishment will be severe, to reflect the gravity of what you've done. Did you doubt that?"

Though Harry didn't quite understand everything the Professor said, he had a fairly good idea of what the man was getting at. He was getting pretty good at guessing the meaning of some of those bigger words the man liked to use. So he knew that basically, he'd really messed up and he shouldn't expect to get off lightly.

"No, sir," he said softly.

"As it is, you need your rest tonight, and I need more time to reflect on what would be an appropriate consequence. Obsessing over it will do you no good, so put it from your mind and finish your supper." The Professor stood and sent his dishes to the sink with a flick of his wand. He paused to stare at Harry long and hard, his eyes sharp. "Believe me, though, when I say that you will be punished appropriately. I will not raise a hand to you, I will not deprive you of food, and I will not lock you away for an excessive amount of time." He paused and watched Harry, as if to see whether his words had sunk in or not.

Harry dropped his eyes and nodded into the table, trying to show that he understood and that he believed the man, even though he still felt a little wary.

"I will be in my study. Come fetch me once you've finished eating." And with those parting words the Professor swept out of the kitchen, the cloth of his robes snapping slightly with the force of his departure.

Harry managed to polish off his soup, and he lingered in the kitchen to clean up, even though the Professor had not told him to and usually took care of things with magic anyway. But after years with the Dursleys, tidying up was an ingrained habit, and something Harry associated with keeping the peace. Sure, the Professor might not notice or care, but hopefully he would, and maybe the gesture would soften him just the slightest bit.

Part of Harry still clung to the vain hope that he might still show the Professor that he wouldn't be too much trouble, if the man just let him stay. If Harry accepted his punishment without complaint and worked hard at whatever it was the Professor decided to make him do, and if he kept to his room and was very quiet and stayed completely out of the way, maybe Snape would see that Harry was hardly a bother. Even better, Harry thought, he could start doing little things around the house to prove that he could be useful. He could make breakfast, and weed the yard and garden, and prune the bushes.

Harry lost himself in a daydream of impressing the Professor while he washed dishes.

"Potter! What in Merlin's name is taking you so long?"

The Professor's sharp tone startled Harry, nearly causing him to drop the large soup pot he'd been trying to scrub. He had not expected the Professor to return, not after the man had retreated to his study. The irritation that was still present in the man's voice deeply unsettled him and left him feeling off-balance.

Slowly he turned to face the man, blanching as he tried to think up how best to handle this. What if the man was mad that he'd dawdled? How had he managed to dig himself an even deeper hole, when all he'd wanted was to show the man that he could be good and useful?

The Professor seized Harry by the wrist, though his grip was not painful like Aunt Petunia's, only firm and unyielding. He pulled Harry back into the sitting room, his strides quick and agitated.

"You should not be on your feet for so long, you brainless little fool. You've suffered five rounds of Cruciatus today! Let me assure you, it is not a curse to be trifled with. And I am not a miracle worker. The potions will stave off the worst of the effects and heal the damage done, but you still have to rest. Why do you think I sedated you this afternoon? Not merely to escape your inane chatter; even I am not that desperate. And whatever possessed you to wash everything by hand, when you have seen me straighten up with a few charms every single night since your arrival…. Perhaps we ought to have you checked for brain damage."

The man was mostly muttering to himself, Harry realized, and didn't actually want a response, so he held his tongue and let the man drag him along like a small child.

Snape deposited Harry back on the transfigured loveseat, his withering glare warning Harry to stay put and to not fuss. Harry waited, scarcely breathing, as the man disappeared down the hallway for a few moments.

When he returned, he was carrying something pale blue and neatly-folded under one of his arms. He tossed the clothes at Harry as soon as he returned to the living room.

Pajamas, Harry saw as he unfolded the fabric. And a nice set, too, not worn out or stained or ripped.

"Go change and wash up for bed," Snape commanded coolly, his hawk-like eyes watching Harry closely. "You may use my bathroom for tonight—down the hall and to the left. You'll be sleeping out here so that I can more effectively monitor you for the time being."

Harry flushed, realizing that Snape was having to waste an awful lot of time and resources tending to him now after that Bellatrix witch had hurt him. And really, the whole thing had been his fault. If he'd just stayed put like he'd been told….

"I can go up to my room, sir—"

"It's not up for debate," Snape cut him off, his tone brooking no further arguments. "Run along."

"I have my own pajamas too, sir," Harry continued, desperately searching for some way to make his presence less burdensome on the Professor.

"Potter."

The single word, edged with warning, was all Harry needed to hear. He clutched the pajamas close to his chest and scurried down the hall and into the Professor's bathroom. Surprisingly, the small room was not that much more elaborate than the one next to his room on the second floor. It was simple and worn-looking, with scrubbed linoleum tiles and faded, peeling mint-green wallpaper. The sink, toilet, and shower were all plain white, functional but by no means elegant.

It was strange, Harry thought, that he found that revelation comforting. The Professor hadn't purposely stuck him in the worst part of the house. He simply didn't have a fancy, well-kept home like Aunt Petunia. Which didn't bother Harry in the least, of course, because the less fancy the place was, the less fussing and upkeep it needed. And Harry liked things to be simple.

Harry washed his face and quickly changed into the new pajamas, which were slightly large on him but nothing like Dudley's castoffs. They were made of cotton, soft and light, perfect for summer nights. He wondered why the Professor had bothered instead of making Harry retrieve the giant t-shirt and overlarge boxer shorts he normally slept in. Was the man being intentionally kind?

Nah. That couldn't be it. These were probably just closer. Though Harry had to wonder who they belonged to. The Professor wasn't married, so it couldn't be his son. Maybe a nephew? A godson? He remembered Dudley's godparents dropping by Privet Drive on occasion to fawn over him. The Professor didn't seem like the kind of man to fawn, but maybe he did have a godson who stayed the night sometimes.

Maybe that was why he had the extra room upstairs, and why he was so adamant that Harry couldn't stay past the end of the week. Maybe he needed the room for someone else, and didn't want to have to find somewhere else for Harry to stay.

Well, Harry thought, he could be happy with less than a room. A cupboard here would be better than his cupboard at Privet Drive. Maybe he could bring up the idea to the Professor, and let the man know how little space he'd actually need. He could even offer to prove it by moving into the cupboard already and showing that he could be perfectly happy in such a small space.

Though he did like his room, with its nice window and bed and dresser, and marked lack of spiders. Even those nasty little imps were preferable to all the spiders that made their home in his cupboard. And after his confrontation with Bellatrix….

Harry shuddered. He would be perfectly happy if he never encountered another spider as long as he lived.

But still, he would brave spiders and put up with a lack of space as long as he could stay. Now he just had to think up a subtle enough way to let the Professor know.

When Harry returned to the sitting room, the Professor was tapping his foot, his arms folded tightly over his chest. His lips tightened into a sour expression when they fell on Harry, but he didn't start berating him for his tardiness. Instead, he indicated the transfigured loveseat with a pale, slender finger.

Harry settled down and drew the blankets over himself, then nestled into the few pillows the Professor had transfigured from books. The Professor made his way over to Harry's side, and for half a second Harry thought that the man intended to tuck him in.

But that little burst of excitement died rather quickly, as the man merely extracted a thin vial filled with a silvery-blue substance and offered it out to Harry.

"Sleeping Draught," he explained, his tone cool and distant. "Drink the whole vial. It should ensure that you do not wake for the rest of the night. However, in the event that you do…." The man's lips curled further, as if the mere prospect disgusted him. "If you should have trouble sleeping, or if your pains return, you may wake me. But I will not be pleased to be disturbed for trivial things. Understood?"

Harry bobbed his head, keeping his eyes on the potion he now clutched in his hands. It was easier to focus on the shimmery, undulating strands of silver in the potion than to have to look at the Professor's pinched, unhappy face.

He knew one thing for sure. No way was he going to bother the man in the middle of the night. Not for anything. Maybe if he was dying, but that was it.

"A verbal answer, Potter. You are not a mute."

"Yes, sir," Harry murmured.

Snape studied him for a moment longer before striding briskly down the hall toward his own rooms. The lights dimmed automatically behind him, leaving Harry with nothing stronger than moonlight.

Harry sighed. "Goodnight," he called quietly, knowing full well that he wouldn't get a response.

XXXXX

Harry was lying in bed, trying to fall asleep. He'd taken the potion, hadn't he? The silver-blue one that tasted like bitter herbs and cotton? So why wasn't he sleeping?

Suddenly he felt a prickle on his neck, the slow, familiar creeping of insect legs that had so often plagued him in his cupboard. He bolted straight up, clasping one hand to his mouth to stifle a scream as the other sought to bat away the spider he was certain was stealing over him.

But just as his hand brushed with the too-large, hairy body, he felt a set of fangs sink into his hand, and an excruciating pain blossomed there. He bit his lip hard to keep from crying out even as he jerked out of bed, his eyes frantically scanning the dark room for more of the terrible little creatures.

"Sh, Harry, everything will be all right," a soothing female voice promised him.

Harry turned around, and he found himself face-to-face with a lovely woman with long red hair. She wore a gentle smile, and her arms were spread wide to welcome Harry.

"Mum?" he whispered.

The woman nodded, her smile stretching wider.

Harry did not know how he recognized her, but he was glad he did. Because as long as she was here, he was safe. He dashed across the room and flung himself into her arms, squeezing her tightly.

"Did you hurt your hand, sweetie?"

Harry was about to nod yes, but there was something wrong with his mum's voice. He didn't know how he could tell, since he'd never heard her speak, except as a baby, but it was suddenly all wrong, familiar in a different way….

Harry turned his head, and instead of seeing his mother's familiar red locks, he found his cheek being tickled by a thick, knotted mess of unkempt black hair. Harry jerked back, his veins icing over, as he realized why this new voice sounded so familiar.

The witch Bellatrix beamed down at him with her demented grin. Harry fought to free himself from her arms, but her grip was too tight, crushing him into immobility.

"Poor little dear," she crooned, the same way she had in the forest clearing. "Let me fix you up now."

There was a flash of red light, and suddenly Harry was sprawled on the ground, lost in the throes of pain and spasms again. He tried to scream, tried to call for the Professor to save him, but his lungs refused to cooperate. He could barely breathe; he was suffocating as he lay there, every muscle feeling as though it were being ripped to shreds by steel claws, his very bones protesting the power of the curse rippling through him.

He could hear the witch cackling as he writhed in agony, delighting in his suffering.

Harry looked around as much as he could, searching for anything on the floor that might let him escape. He would just need something heavy, like a big book…. He twisted his head to see under the transformed loveseat.

And that was when he saw them. Glittering eyes. Thousands of them, peering back at him from the darkness. And suddenly they were swarming forward, a whole host of evil-looking arachnids. Harry tried to thrash away, tried to shield himself, but they teemed over him in a wave, engulfing his body, their needle-like bites just sharp accents to the throbbing pain of Bellatrix's curse.

"Poor little dear," Bellatrix repeated. "I'll help. Let me end your misery. Avada kedavra!"

Her voice changed at the end; suddenly the girlish, sing-song mockery was gone, and instead it was a high, masculine voice that uttered that final incantation. Harry choked out a sob as everything dissolved in a flash of green light.

Harry bolted upright, his heart pounding out a painful tattoo in his chest. He leapt up immediately, brushing his hands hurriedly all over his body. He could still feel the ghost of all those legs crawling over him. The sensation was enough to turn his stomach.

He had to disentangle himself from the blanket before he could stumbled across the dark sitting room and hop up onto the overstuffed armchair, where he figured he could be safe until he fully sorted his dream from reality.

After he ran his hands over his arms one final time without feeling so much as a tiny orb weaver crawling on him, Harry hugged himself tightly and let loose a strangled sob. He could still feel the traces of tears on his cheeks. Hastily, he scanned the dark, silent room, desperate to reassure himself that he was safe, that there was no Bellatrix, no spiders, nothing that could hurt him.

Hurt. That part was real, he realized. His limbs shook, and they burned a little—though nothing like the curse he'd endured earlier, and nothing like the pain from his dream. But it was still too much to be comfortable. The Professor's medicines must have worn off.

Harry's eyes kept darting around the room. Everything was blurry without his glasses, and it was too dark to see anything well. He desperately wished he was a powerful wizard like Snape, so that he could summon the light he needed. His heart was gradually slowing in his chest, and the rational part of his brain was arguing that the Professor and the Headmaster had taken Bellatrix away, and that the Professor wouldn't have an infestation of hundreds of fist-sized spiders just lurking about his home. It had all been a nightmare, that was all.

Even that rationalization wasn't enough to entirely banish the lingering effects of the nightmare. Harry was terrified; he felt so vulnerable, like at any moment he would be plunged back into that hellish scene. And worse even than that, he felt alone. Utterly, completely alone.

He loved seeing one of his parents in his dreams, since it was so rare for it to happen, and it was the only way he could feel connected to them. But the bitterness when he woke up always left him feeling so raw and utterly depressed that he sometimes wondered if it was worth it. Worse, this time his mother's image was tainted by the crazy witch Bellatrix.

Harry shuddered and hugged himself tighter. No, he wouldn't let himself dwell on this. He was going to figure out a way to calm himself down and get back to sleep so he wouldn't be exhausted the next day. After all, he was going to be punished, so he doubted the Professor would let him sleep in. As much as he wanted to simply force himself to stay up for the rest of the night, he knew he couldn't.

Harry squared his shoulders. He was going to stop cowering on top of this chair like a little girl startled by a mouse, he decided. He would get down, and go into the kitchen to get himself a glass of water. That would help with his throat, and maybe even ease the trembling and pain. And then he was going to stop being a baby and crawl back into bed, because there were no spiders there, and no Bellatrix. The Professor and the Headmaster had both said that the house was safe and that the nasty witch was gone, and Harry was going to trust them.

It was several more minutes of forced deep breathing before Harry managed to work up the courage to step down from the armchair. He couldn't help the way his eyes roved over the room still, searching for the slightest movement. Even his ears seemed hypersensitive, straining to pick up the softest noises.

But all was still and silent in the sitting room.

Harry forced himself to take a bracing breath. Okay. First things first, his glasses. Snape had left them on the coffee table… Harry shuffled his way over to the low piece of furniture, making sure to glance at the dark corners and crevices of the room every few seconds just in case anything tried to leap out at him. As soon as he'd crammed the badly-doctored frames onto his face, he felt heaps better. Not that he could see that much better, really. It just seemed to him that he was less helpless now that he had some vision.

Now for the water. Slowly but surely, Harry made his way into the kitchen. He knew that the glasses were up in the higher cabinets next to the sink, and that he would likely have to climb up on a chair in order to retrieve one.

He was careful not to drag the legs of the wooden chair against the floor as he moved it, not knowing how sensitive the Professor's hearing was. The last thing he wanted was to wake the man and destroy his chances of getting to stay once and for all. His hand spasmed once when he tried to grip the back of the chair, but the spasming only lasted for a few seconds.

It would likely be gone by morning, Harry decided. And if not, the Professor could give him more medicine then.

Harry clamored up onto the chair and opened the cabinet door very slowly. He selected one of the larger, heavier glasses from the bottom shelf, because even with the chair he could scarcely reach up to the smaller glasses near the top. At first he gripped it with both hands just as a precaution, but when he shifted it to his right hand so that he could close the cupboard again, another spasm began.

The glass slipped from his fingers and dropped to the floor, where it shattered against the hardwood. And it sounded to Harry's ears as if the whole cupboard had come crashing down around him.

Harry's heart immediately started hammering again. His brain was screaming at him to do something, anything, to fix it, but for too many excruciating seconds he was paralyzed. All he could do was stare down at the mess he'd made, a thousand glass shards spread like shrapnel all across the ground.

Harry heard the click of a door opening in the distance, and that was enough to spur him into action. He jumped down from the chair, wincing as he felt several pieces of glass pierce through his sock and directly into his foot. He dropped to his knees, again pushing back the pain, forcing himself to think only of cleaning up the mess before the Professor arrived in time to see the damage. Hurriedly, he began gathering as many bits of glass into his palm as he could, cradling the fragments carefully so as not to drop them again.

"POTTER!"

Yet again, Snape's voice was powerful enough to startle him to his feet. Harry leapt up, his hand instinctively clenching around the glass he'd been gathering, driving the sharp little pieces deep into his skin. But that was the least of his concerns.

Harry spun to face a livid Snape, who stood in the kitchen entryway, wand drawn, wrapped tightly in a midnight blue dressing gown.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake," the man hissed, striding forward purposefully. He snatched up Harry's hand and instructed in a cold, precise tone, "Drop it."

Harry hesitated initially, unwilling to simply release the bloodied mess onto the floor. But when the Professor's hand tightened almost painfully around his wrist, Harry did drop the glass shards.

The Professor glared at him disdainfully before turning the hand palm-up and muttering a few spells over the flesh, removing the last of the glass and causing the small cuts to close and smooth over.

"Just what do you think you were doing?" the Professor demanded in a low, dangerous tone.

Harry swallowed thickly. "I'm sorry, sir," he whispered. "I—I didn't mean to—"

"An apology is not an explanation. Answer my question."

Harry winced and bobbed his head once to show that he would comply. "I woke up, sir, and I was thirsty, so I thought I'd get a glass of water, but it slipped and broke—"

"The whole truth, Potter, before I wash your mouth out for lying."

Harry winced again. Somehow, he knew that the Professor wasn't making an empty threat. But he didn't know what the man wanted. "I'm not lying! I didn't break it on purpose—"

"You are omitting," the man returned sharply, dropping Harry's wrist and moving to grip his chin firmly. He forced the boy's head up and into his dark, impatient gaze. "Why did you wake up?"

"Nightmare," Harry breathed, choosing to stare fixedly at the wallpaper behind Snape rather than meet the man's gaze directly.

"About today's events?"

"Yes, sir." The words were barely audible.

"And were you being tortured again in this nightmare?" Snape continued knowingly.

"Yes, sir."

Snape released the boy's chin. "Stupid little fool," he uttered harshly. He waved his wand at the mess of glass on the floor; every last broken piece vanished. Then he took Harry by the shoulder, his fingers digging deep into the boy's flesh. "Go sit on your bed," he commanded. "And strip out of your pajamas. You've bloodied them."

Harry wanted to protest that he wasn't about to just sit around practically starkers waiting for the Professor. But then, the man was already in a thoroughly foul mood, and he figured that being bereft of pajamas would likely be the least of his worries in a few moments. So as soon as the Professor released his shoulder he scurried off into the sitting room and hastily unbuttoned his pajama top, wincing slightly from the echoes of the curse pain that were throbbing in his limbs.

He hesitated when it came to removing the bottoms. Even the Dursleys hadn't seen him so exposed, not in years. He still remembered, vaguely, what had happened the few times he'd showed up less than fully dressed in their sitting room. It had been back when he'd been having so much difficulty dressing himself. And it wasn't like Aunt Petunia was going to take the time to help him.

Petunia had screamed at him that he was an 'uncouth little cretin' (whatever that was) and stuffed him back into his cupboard for a long stretch of hours.

Harry had learned fairly quickly after that.

But now…. Harry sucked in his lower lip and nibbled it nervously as he tried to work up the courage to shed his bottoms. Sure, he would still have his boxers. But there was something terrifying about being so unclothed, especially when the Professor looked ready to chuck Harry out on his ear.

Well, he thought, disobedience wouldn't make anything better. Likely it would just set the Professor off. So he peeled off the cotton bottoms. He could help but wince and whimper a little as they came off. Kneeling in the glass had been a stupid idea, he realized, because he'd driven a bunch of the stupid little shards into his legs. He saw that there were even little spots of blood where they'd cut the skin.

Harry bit his lip harder, trying to fight off the panic he felt rising in him again. He'd woken the Professor and messed up the kitchen and ruined the nice pajamas he'd borrowed. He'd ruined everything, and he could scarcely hold in the choking sobs that threatened to overwhelm him.

The Professor would definitely make him leave now. And no one would want him. So he'd either have to go back to the Dursleys or straight to an orphanage, and he wasn't sure which was worse.

The Professor swept in just as Harry was pulling his knees up to his chest in an effort to comfort himself. That, and keep warm. He already had gooseflesh all over his arms and legs from the slight chill of being unclothed.

Snape lit the room with an impatient arc of his wand. He still looked grumpy and displeased, but Harry didn't see the terrible black fury he'd expected for all the trouble he'd caused. If it had been Uncle Vernon….

But the Professor wasn't like Uncle Vernon. Harry had already established that. So it was stupid to keep making these comparisons.

Still, he wished he knew what was coming.

The Professor's critical eyes seemed to be taking him apart rather than condemning him, Harry thought, calming just a little. It was like the man didn't know quite what to make of him.

"All right, Potter," Snape said, his voice surprisingly even. He closed the distance between them and, with a gesture from his wand, retransformed the coffee table into his customary stool. He settled on it, then crooked a finger at Harry, beckoning him forward. "Let's see the damage."

Slowly, cautiously, Harry unfolded himself, allowing his legs to drop back to the floor. He scooted forward a little so that he was at a convenient distance from Snape, where the man could see his injuries.

The Professor was silent as he worked his spells, the same that he had used on Harry's hands to remove the glass and close the cuts. He tended to Harry's feet with surprising tenderness, his hands warm and gentle as they turned and twisted the appendages, searching for any lingering cuts and shards. At the end, he cleaned away the little drops of blood too; that spell tickled slightly, and despite Harry's apprehension, he could barely suppress a giggle as it ghosted over his bare legs and very, very sensitive soles.

Snape rolled his eyes, clearly having caught enough of Harry's reaction, before turning to the boy's pajamas and muttering a few cleaning spells. Satisfied, he thrust the pajamas back at Harry directing, "There, slip those back on before you catch a chill on top of everything."

Harry obliged, dressing as quickly as he could. It was hard because his hands started trembling again as he did up the buttons. Harry gnawed on his lip hard as he tried to muster the concentration needed to subdue his rebellious muscles.

But Snape quickly got fed up with watching him struggle and, moving in close with the speed of a swooping bat, batted the boy's hands away and began doing the buttons up himself. Then he brusquely directed, "Sit."

Harry fell back, dropping onto the loveseat bed as if his legs had been cut from beneath him.

"I would tell you how foolish it is to kneel in broken glass and try to pick it up with your bare hands, but I think the results speak for themselves, yes?"

Harry bobbed his head nervously.

"I should hope so." Snape exhaled heavily. "Your nightmare, Potter. You awoke from it with pain and tremors?"

Harry stole a glance up at the man. He looked weary, Harry thought. Like he just wanted to burrow back into bed. Which was strange, considering it was all Harry's fault that he wasn't there right now. Maybe he would be angrier in the morning…..

"Yes, sir," Harry confirmed.

Snape pursed his lips and cast a hand out toward the hall; seconds later a small leather satchel came drifting down the hall. Snape caught it expertly and began digging through it, pulling out vials as he went. He extended two—a bright green and a translucent concoction that contained strands of undulating silver, like the Sleeping Draught Harry had taken earlier.

Harry grasped them tentatively.

"Take them both—the whole vial. The dosages have already been adjusted for you."

Harry obeyed. The green potion was horribly bitter and acrid; it reminded Harry of earwax. The translucent potion, though, went down like water, and if it weren't for the strange silver strands, Harry would have doubted it was a potion at all.

It didn't take long for Harry to feel the effects. A strange coolness surged through him, soothing the pain like aloe on a burn, and calming the tremors. Harry slumped back, floating in the bliss of release from his extreme discomfort.

"Any residual pain or discomfort?" Snape inquired coolly.

"No, sir. Thank you—"

Snape waved the thanks away irritably, his face darkening in a scowl once more. "You can thank me," he growled, his weariness suddenly dissolving, "by explaining to me exactly why you could not simply ask for those potions, why instead you had to make a bloody mess in my kitchen and riddle yourself with broken glass instead. Tell me, boy, was I unclear in my instructions? Did I or did I not instruct you to come get me if you started experiencing side effects again?"

Harry shrank back from the man's accusatory tone. "I—I didn't want to bother you—"

"Were you in pain?"

Harry flinched. "A little, but—"

"And was your sleep disturbed?"

"It was just a stupid nightmare," Harry mumbled to himself, feeling a bright blush steal over his cheeks.

"And did I or did I not specifically tell you to come get me if you were in pain or if you had trouble sleeping? Did you think that if you experienced both issues at the same time that my instructions were suddenly null and void?"

Harry gulped. "No, I just didn't want to—to wake you up—"

"And then," Snape continued, standing in agitation, "you choose to crawl up onto the cupboard and attempt to retrieve a glass, while you are experiencing great pain and severe muscle tremors! Are you daft, boy? What if you had lost your grip and fallen backwards, cracking your skull? Or somehow impaled yourself on a piece of broken glass?" The Professor shook his head in disgust. "I don't speak to fill the air! When I give you specific instructions, Potter, you are to follow them! Is that understood?"

Harry's throat was so tight by then that he could scarcely squeeze the words past his vocal chords. But he managed a weak "Yes, sir", hoping that it was enough to appease Snape.

Apparently it was. That was all it took for the man to stop his furious pacing. Harry watched as the man drew in a deep breath, one so large that it made his whole upper body rise and fall. "Next time," he instructed, his voice quiet and controlled once more, "you will come wake me immediately. Now…." He settled back onto the stool and plucked the emptied vials from Harry's hands. His black eyes fell back on the boy, and they were surprisingly steady and intense, just like before. "I presume your nightmare was rather… intense?"

Harry did not know where this was going. Snape hadn't scolded him about what a bother he was, or how awful Harry was to have disturbed his rest. No, it seemed as if he were only upset because Harry hadn't found him right away.

But the pain hadn't been that bad, Harry reasoned. It was silly that Snape was worked up over that.

Even stranger, the man didn't seem upset about the destruction Harry had caused in the kitchen, only about how Harry might have hurt himself trying to get a drink.

"Potter?" Snape prompted. He barely even sounded impatient.

Harry nodded.

Snape seemed to wait a moment for elaboration, but when it became obvious that Harry wasn't going to offer anything else, he continued, "It's typical of victims of the Cruciatus curse—especially long bouts of it—to experience intense nightmares for several nights. Often the nightmares themselves become entwined with the return of the tremors and shooting pains that linger after the curse…. Have you recovered from your nightmare?"

Harry thought that last question was a bit stiff. Probably the Professor didn't want to ask it, because he didn't care all that much, but he was forced to ask it anyway because he was stuck with Harry. Not that the Dursleys had ever bothered…. But the Professor was loads better than the Dursleys in every way, so this shouldn't be surprising.

"Yes, sir," Harry mumbled.

The Professor closed his eyes lightly for a moment. "Do you wish to talk about it?" he inquired, his voice even more forced than before.

"No, sir."

The Professor sighed, and his eyes opened again. His dark, assessing gaze fell on Harry once more—and Harry thought that, strangely enough, the man looked almost disappointed for some reason. "I think it would be best if you did," he stated. "It certainly won't hurt. What was the dream about?"

Automatically, Harry drew his legs up to himself, as if that could shield him from both the Professor and the lingering unease from his night terror. "S'not important—"

"Potter, I realize it is late," the Professor broke in, his tone irritated once more, "but I think you are still capable of using proper words and answering in complete sentences, are you not?"

Harry dug his nails into his legs at the Professor's reprimand. Stupid! he cursed himself. "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. It's just… it's not a big deal—"

"Answer the question."

Harry sighed. He could tell what that tone meant. There was no way around it. "It—at first, I thought I felt something crawling on me. I was—you see, in the dream, I was in here—I was dreaming I was in here—"

The Professor seized him by the shoulder and shook him lightly, interrupting his incoherent, increasingly panicky rambling. "Breathe, Potter," he commanded sternly. "Calm yourself."

Harry tried. It helped that the Professor kept his hand clasped on Harry's shoulder; Harry was sure it was just so the man could shake him again if he started babbling, but it felt nice all the same. Warm, and steady. A reminder of the wizard's strength. Harry decided to pretend that the Professor was trying to reassure him with that gesture.

So he took a few deep breaths, and then he told Snape all about the spiders crawling on him, and his mother turning into Bellatrix, and the torture curses, and the flash of green light. As he spoke, the Professor's face grew progressively more grim and pale, and Harry didn't know what to make of that. He had to swallow a few times so he could get all the details out, and each time he did, the Professor's brow furrowed a little deeper.

At the end, to Harry's great surprise, Snape gave his shoulder a little squeeze. "It's very common," he informed Harry, "for that curse to affect the victim emotionally as well as physically. It will fade with time, I promise. As for the rest…." Snape's dark eyes cast away to the side for a moment. "You are safe here. It's natural for you to be so shaken after such an ordeal, especially at such a young age. But you must know that Albus Dumbledore set the protections on this house himself, and he is personally safeguarding Bellatrix. He is the most powerful wizard of our time, Harry; nothing can harm you here. As I said, it will take time for the fear to fade, but I want you to reflect on how protected you are here."

Snape paused to clear his throat lightly, even as his gaze strayed even further from Harry's. "Too, I will allow no harm to come to you. As your temporary guardian, it is my duty to protect you, and I take all of my duties seriously. I came for you yesterday, did I not?"

Harry felt his cheeks warm when he remembered how the wizard had been forced to rush to his aid. "Yes, sir, you did."

"And I will always come for you, regardless of how foolish you've been or what trouble you've managed to find. That is the promise I made to your mother, and that is the promise I now make to you."

Harry couldn't speak. No one had ever made a declaration like this, not to him. Oh, he was sure his aunt and uncle would throw themselves in front of a speeding lorry for their little Diddykins, but not for Harry. But here the Professor was swearing to protect Harry with his life. At least, for the little time that Harry would be allowed to stay in the man's home….

No. He wouldn't think about that now. It was too depressing, especially knowing how devoted the Professor would have been to him, and how fair and forgiving.

Then something else registered in Harry's mind. "You knew my mum," he murmured, mostly to himself. That was why the Professor had been willing to take him in, even for two weeks. Not just because he knew the Headmaster, but because he was doing a favor for Harry's dead mum.

Snape dipped his head slowly in confirmation. "I did." And that seemed all he was willing to say on the matter for the time being.

Harry wondered if he might be able to beg the man to tell him about his mum—just a few things. Like what her voice really sounded like, and what her favorite things had been, and what her smile had looked like.

Later. Maybe when the man wasn't tired and furious with Harry. Maybe after he'd served his punishment.

The thought that he still had to face that the next day caused his stomach to start churning again. Harry took his lip in his teeth again and began to nibble, using the mild pain of his front teeth digging into his lip to distract him from that unsettling thought.

The Professor sighed and, releasing Harry's shoulder, rose to his feet. He extended a hand toward the kitchen, and seconds later a glass came drifting into the sitting room. The Professor caught it deftly, filled it from the tip of his wand, and extended it to Harry, one brow arched at him in challenge. "I trust you'll keep this at your bedside from now on, so that if you grow thirsty you won't feel the need for further escapades. Yes?"

Harry felt something unknot deep in his chest. He bobbed his head hurriedly, flashing the man a shy, grateful smile. "Thank you, sir—"

But Snape was already waving off the thanks. Clearly the man was not too irate, Harry thought. If he had been, he wouldn't have been thoughtful enough to get Harry a glass of water like this, or sit here and talk about the nightmare.

"It's late." Snape stood and turned his stool back into the coffee table. He cast a sharp glance back at Harry. "Have you had enough? Yes? Give it here, then." Snape plucked the glass, which Harry had been nursing for a scant few seconds, from the boy's grasp and placed it on the coffee table. Next he snatched Harry's glasses, which he folded and set right beside the glass. "Well, lie down."

Harry obeyed without a second thought. He tucked his knees up to his chest and was just about to fish about for the blanket when the Professor reached down and pulled it up to his chin, draping it lightly. There was no actual tucking, per se, but Harry couldn't dampen the warm feeling in his chest that sparked from that little, insignificant gesture. The Professor had tucked him in, after he'd woken the man up and broken his glass and made a general mess of things.

Harry stole a peak up at the Professor, and found that the man was now hold a jar in his hand, his wand inside it, his lips moving in a series of incantations. The man's brow was furrowed in intense conversation. As the Professor spoke, a tiny sphere of light began to take shape in the jar. It gave off a gentle blue-white light, and pulsed regularly like a heartbeat. It began to expand slightly, from the size of a pea to the size of a marble, and finally, just as the Professor withdrew his wand, the size of a golf ball.

The Professor gave a grunt of what Harry assumed was satisfaction and set the whole jar down on the table beside the glass. "This, Potter, is a charmed light. It will respond to your needs, and it will not go out. While you sleep, it will glow low like a Muggle pilot light. But, should you need to navigate in the dark, it will grow brighter. Likewise, if you awaken from a nightmare and wish the room to be lighter for a time, it will oblige you. But if that should occur for any reason—pain or no—you are to seek me out immediately. Understood?"

Harry twisted his hands in the blanket and tucked his head down so he could avoid Snape's accusatory glare. He was relieved beyond words that the man had thought to magic something like a nightlight for him—though Harry would never call it a nightlight. He was far too old for that kind of thing. But he didn't like the idea of knocking on the Professor's door in the middle of the night, no matter what the man told him now. Somehow he couldn't picture that scenario ever ending well for him.

Well. He would just go along for now, and if he woke again he wouldn't be stupid enough this time to try climbing on the countertops. He would just stay put in his bed, and make the light grow brighter if he needed a little extra comfort.

"Yes, sir."

Snape assessed him for a moment longer. Harry could feel those cool eyes lingering on him, searching for who knew what. "The pain is gone? Completely?"

"Yes, sir. Since you gave me the potion."

"Good. We'll dose you again in the morning. For now, try to sleep. If you cannot, come seek me out and I'll give you a little more potion." Snape quelled the lights in the room, leaving only the newly-created nightlight, which glowed steadily in a gentle, pulsing rhythm that made Harry think of waves, or a chest rising and falling.

"Goodnight, sir." Harry uttered the words even though they were meaningless, even though Snape had already started on his way down the hall and likely wouldn't hear them at all.

But the Professor surprised him. He paused just a little ways down the hall, turned back slightly, and returned, "Goodnight, Potter" before sweeping away.

Harry heard the light click of the man's bedroom door. And despite the lingering unease from the nightmare, and his anxiety about what the next day would bring, and his general fear of what would happen to him at the end of the week when he would have to leave, Harry felt just the slightest bit content.

Because he had a plan for the next morning.


	10. One More Week

Something was off. Snape could sense that already as he lay in his double bed on his back, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. And it was too early for something to be off, given his short and fitful night.

He listened carefully to the rest of the house, his acute hearing searching for some sound—the creaking of an intruder's footsteps, the sound a door handle rattling, the nearly imperceptible thrum of spells being cast. But there was nothing, dead silence.

Snape pushed himself up and tucked his feet into his slippers before snatching his dressing gown from its place on the wall and shrugging into it.  _Something_  was wrong, or at the very least, not quite right, and he was going to get to the bottom of it.

It had better not be Potter, he thought with a snarl as he started to stalk toward the hall. The boy would still be asleep if he knew what was good for him. If  _this_ was the one morning he decided to wake up early and cause trouble… well, he already intended to make the boy's day miserable for the little stunt he'd pulled. Severus was certainly clever enough to cook up ways to increase that misery tenfold.

He barely bit back a growl of rage when he saw the mussed blankets and the empty makeshift bed in the sitting room. Yes, he was going to make that boy wish he'd never been born for thinking—

Bacon. That was what was off. Bacon and toast and other food smells—enticing, delicious. And coffee. What the hell was this? His rage evaporated in an instant as he tried to contemplate why he his home was filled with the scents of a wholesome breakfast before he'd even set foot in the kitchen. He had no house elves, and Dumbledore knew better than to simply send him a loan from Hogwarts without consulting him. Or at least warning him.

Then again, Severus thought, his lips twisting bitterly, this  _was_ Dumbledore. Perhaps the man had unilaterally decided that Severus was incapable of providing for Harry's basic needs and required assistance with things as mundane as cooking and cleaning. Oh, he and Albus were going to have words….

Severus entered into the kitchen and froze in disbelief. He had to blink rapidly at the scene before him before it fully sunk in. Potter at the stove, his tiny, frail frame leaning over the stove, a pan of eggs on his left, a pan of sizzling bacon on his right, and a spatula gripped confidently in his eight-year-old hand.

What in Merlin's name was the boy thinking? And where had he learned to cook? And why had he decided to rise before dawn this morning to do so? Surely the little monster wasn't starving to the point that he could not simply wait until Severus had gotten around to fixing something. After all, Severus was naturally inclined to wake early. If the boy had waited just half an hour….

"Potter, back from the hot stove!" Severus decided to punctuate his command by dragging Potter back several feet from the open burners. He spun the startled boy to face him, putting on his best scowl. The brat looked positively mortified. "What on earth are you doing? Embedding glass into your limbs wasn't enough, now you want to make sure to cover your arms in grease burns?"

Potter shook his head back and forth in frantic denial. "No—no, sir. I was just—just making breakfast. After all, you were up with me so late, and I didn't think it was fair that you should have to do more work this morning. And I've cooked loads of times for my aunt and uncle, so I promise I won't burn myself—"

"You promise, do you?" Severus cut him off scathingly, even as he processed the rest of the boy's words. Potter had been trying to be helpful…. "And pray tell, what miracle solution have you found to combat your uncontrollable and unpredictable muscle spasms? After all, the potion has worn off by now."

Potter gulped and dropped those sinfully green eyes to the floor. Severus noticed the boy's hand tightening around the spatula. "They come in little waves, so I just… I try to—"

Severus couldn't stop himself. He jerked the boy's chin up, forcing him to at least look him in the eye. "No, let me enlighten you. Your health is still in an indeterminate state. Not only should you be resting, you should not be tempting fate by playing around with hot grease and hot pans while you do not have full motor control of your hands and legs. You could seriously injure yourself if you slip. You are lucky last night's mishap did not have more severe consequences."

Severus fought the urge to curse as he watched the boy go from apprehensive to positively shattered. He let the boy's chin drop and turned back to the stove, choosing to distract himself by casting the appropriate cooking charms over the food. Then he turned back to see Potter trying to maintain his grip on the spatula, which was struggling to go hover over the eggs and bacon.

"Let it go," Snape commanded, fighting to keep his voice gentle. "Sit there, at the table."

Potter did, and his whole posture screamed of misery—shoulders hunched, body slumped, hands clutched tightly together on his lap as if they might cause mischief on their own if not properly tended.

"I—I'm so sorry," Potter mumbled, his voice breaking slightly on the last word. "I didn't mean to… I only wanted to help, I swear. I didn't think—"

"No, you did not." This Severus said softly, trying to lessen the blow. It worked, it seemed, because the boy didn't immediately burst into tears. Instead, he picked his head up cautiously, still wary but puzzled now, too. "I… realize you had good intentions. But you are far too young to be cooking unsupervised."

"But at the Dursleys—"

"You are no longer at your relatives' home," Snape bit in, unable to contain his anger at the mention of that insufferable lot. He could not force his temper back in that moment, and he sincerely hoped that Potter understood that his fury was not directed at him. "In my estimation, your aunt and uncle were not fit to care for a goldfish, much less a wizarding child. You will not be returning there, so put their rules and their norm from your mind. You are here for the time being. And you are a young child; preparing meals is not your responsibility."

The boy's shoulders slumped again. "Sorry," he mumbled.

Severus heaved a sigh. "You didn't know. And… as I said, you had good intentions. I appreciate what you were trying to do."

That got the boy to relax—quite a deal, actually. He even chanced a feeble smile up at Severus. Severus could not bring himself to smile in return, but he managed to dip his head graciously in acknowledgment.

"And as you are not wholly incompetent," Severus continued, "perhaps you could assist me with preparing meals from now on."

There. That seemed to please the brat. "Yes, sir. I'd be happy to. Thank you. And I'm sorry—"

Severus waved the boy off. Really, he had the annoying tendency to over-apologize. Silly child. As if repetition made it any more meaningful. "It's done. We'll speak no more of it. Now, let us see to your potions…."

The next few minutes passed in relative silence as Severus summoned the satchel he'd been using to store the boy's dosages. Luckily everything he needed was quick and simple to brew, nothing that required more than an hour of preparation and simmering. Potter was cooperative, taking the two potions—one for pain, one for nervous tissue restoration—without complaint. The boy even kept the disgusted faces to a minimum.

Satisfied with the boy's state and comfort level, Severus went to serve himself a cup of coffee.

"Sir?" Potter spoke quietly, his voice so shrinking and timid that Severus barely caught it, even with his sensitive hearing.

"Mmm?" Severus turned back to face Potter, fortified by a mug of black coffee that he hoped the boy had prepared correctly.

Potter stared at his bare feet. "I—I was wondering if you knew where I'd be going at the end of the week."

Severus sighed. Of course. The boy would want to know his fate; it was only natural to want to dispel that uncertainty. Especially for this child, who likely expected to be shipped back to his horrid relatives, or worse. "I do not know, Mr. Potter. I have been attempting to badger the answer to that question out of the Headmaster myself, but so far he has been less than forthcoming. All I can tell you is that under no circumstances will you be returning to your relatives."

The boy perked up a little at those words. "You—you swear?"

Snape's lip curled in irritation. "Yes, I  _swear_. Though why you should doubt  _my_  word, when you are the one who broke your promises to me yesterday…."

Snape did not miss the scarlet blush that stole over the boy's skin. Good. He at least had the sense to regret his actions. Snape took a long pull from his coffee. It was good—strong, but not bitter. If he was being honest, it was as good as if he'd made it himself. Well, maybe the boy could be in charge of that, if he was so intent on taking on a chore around here.

Severus glanced over at the eggs and bacon. Both seemed to be appropriately cooked; the bacon might have been a shade under Severus' preferred slightly crispy, but he was not about to be a perfectionist this morning. He used his wand to direct a two plates down from the cupboard, then spelled the spatula to begin serving them.

"I would have made toast, Professor, but you don't have a toaster," Harry mumbled.

Severus rolled his eyes and with yet another marginal flick of his wand had four slices of white bread bobbing out of the breadbox. A quick, intense heating spell had them browned to perfection.

"Well, go fetch yourself some juice," he commanded impatiently, snatching the plates and settling the toast beside the bacon and eggs before taking up his customary seat. "Unless you plan on coffee this morning?"

Harry hopped up from his seat as if it had suddenly heated and burnt him.

"Grab us some silverware. Wait, Potter." Severus summoned a glass down from the high shelves as he did most mornings. No need to tempt the little fiend.

The boy returned shortly after, his glass half-full of juice. He shyly passed a fork and knife to Severus, his small face still crumpled with worry.

Snape took another long sip of his coffee, watching Potter out of the corner of his eye. The boy hadn't made a move to touch his food yet. Severus lowered his mug and shot a mild glare at the boy. "Do you prefer your food stone-cold?"

Potter winced slightly and, after an uncertain glance at Severus, took his cue to tuck in. But after a few bites, he set his fork down—rather delicately, for a ravenous boy of eight, Snape thought—and stared fixedly at his untouched glass of juice.

"What is it now?" Severus huffed.

"Sir, if no one wants me, will I… will I have to go to the orphanage?"

Snape slammed his mug down, causing a few flecks of coffee to fly out. Of all the ridiculous questions…. "No, Mr. Potter, you will not be going to an orphanage. It would not be safe for you, for one. And the Headmaster is seeing to your placement. He will find you a suitable family, mark my words. And in the unlikely event that no one is interested in taking in the little savior of the wizarding world, I am certain Albus will adopt you himself and ply you with sweets until your teeth rot out. Now put those foolish worries from your head and eat your breakfast."

Snape was gratified to see the boy flash him another small smile, feeble though it was. At least the boy's posture didn't tense again when his lips fell back into a slightly troubled line.

They ate their breakfast in relative silence. Snape had finished his second cup of coffee by the time he sent the emptied plates and used pans in the sink to be scrubbed. He was just turning back to the table, his third cup in hand and steaming from a Heating Charm, when he noticed that the boy was hunched down again, cowering as if he expected a blow at any moment.

He sighed. "Potter. What have I told you regarding my intentions of beating you?"

"That you won't," Potter mumbled.

"Indeed. So why are you cowering once again?"

Potter fidgeted slightly in his chair. "What are you going to do to me?"

" _To_ you? Nothing, I assure you. Your next few days, however, will most certainly be unpleasant. I think writing lines for the duration of the morning will serve nicely to reinforce your lesson. After that, I believe the yard needs weeding, and I've a few dozen cauldrons that need to be scrubbed out by hand. And it goes without saying, I believe, that you will not have access to your playthings for quite some time. We'll see if that helps your lesson to sink in."

Potter nodded once in grim acceptance of his fate.

"Settle at the table, then. I'll be back."

Minutes later Severus had supplied the boy with a thick stack of parchment, a quill, and an inkpot. He carefully wrote out the boy's line at the top of the first sheet.

_I will obey all rules and strictures set by adults, as disobeying not only endangers my life but also demonstrates a marked lack of respect for my elders._

"Do you understand the sentence, Potter?" Severus demanded, eying his charge critically.

"Yes," he mumbled, then added shyly, "but I don't understand—strict-yours?"

"Strictures," Severus corrected automatically. "Restrictions. Limitations. The order to not leave the yard under any circumstances, for example."

The boy's cheeks colored and he nodded into the table. "How many times should I copy it, sir?"

"As many as you can. I will evaluate if further copying will be beneficial at the end of the day based on how diligently you work now. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

Snape studied the boy for a moment longer. Potter seemed properly cowed, he thought, meaning that there was no need to supervise him too closely. "I'll be in my study or my lab if you need anything. The very minute you start to experience any kind of pain or tremors, you are to come find me. Immediately. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," Potter repeated meekly.

Snape nodded. "Well, get to it then." And he swept off.

He needed to speak to Albus, he decided. They had too many issues to discuss. He had to know Bellatrix's fate, for one. Potter's nightmare aside, he needed to know what would be done with the deranged witch for his own peace of mind. And he intended to press the headmaster for details on his plan for Harry.

He wanted to be able to tell the boy that they'd arranged a suitable home for him, if only to stop the boy's pathetically sad looks and incessant questions. Too, he wanted to be sure that he would not be stuck with the child by default; he did not trust the headmaster's promises concerning their current arrangements.

Severus strode into his study, making certain to close the door tightly behind him as well as erect a solid one-way ward. He didn't think that Potter would be stupid enough to attempt eavesdropping, but one could never be too careful, especially with overly-curious adolescents.

Then he braced himself for the unpleasant and likely frustrating conversation he was about to have with the headmaster.

"Severus!"

At least the man answered immediately, Severus thought, staring down at the headmaster's flame-wreathed head in the fireplace.

"How fares our Harry?"

"As well as can be expected. He woke with pain last night, of course. The treatment should only take a few days, though; the nerve regeneratives are rather potent. As for the psychological damage… that, I suspect, will take a great deal more time to resolve. Speaking of, what will the ministry be doing with Bellatrix?"

Dumbledore's face darkened almost instantly. "She will be returned to her cell in Azkaban after having been thoroughly Obliviated—"

"So she won't be Kissed," Severus broke in, seething. "After escaping from Azkaban by becoming an illegal Animagus and torturing the Boy Who Lived within an inch of his life, she will be sent back to her cozy little cell. She—"

"Severus, I could not inform the Ministry of her actions against you and Harry without giving a full account of all that passed in Spinner's End. And, as I recall, you specifically requested that your name be left out of these proceedings. And as for the consequences of her escape… I am certain I need not tell you of her influential and wealthy connections within the wizarding world. I believe Narcissa and Lucius both pulled strings and cashed in several of their chips in order to press certain officials to contend that the Dementor's Kiss could not be administered without a public sentencing. And as the Ministry as a whole wishes to keep this affair quiet to prevent any panic in the public…."

"Fine," Severus growled, "but what of her Animagus abilities? Surely even Fudge is not such a fool as to allow her to return without regulating that. There is a potion—"

"The Minister has ordered that the Auror Corps' ward experts attend to her cell with the strongest anti-transfiguration spells available. I have also been invited to ply my own expertise. And Severus, I know of the potion you've mentioned, and I strongly council against any… independent preparation… on your part. I am well aware of the temptation to put a permanent end to Bellatrix's newly-developed abilities, just as I am aware of the Dark components necessary to complete the potion. I will not see you start down that path once more, Severus, regardless of how justified you feel it might be in this case."

Severus merely gritted his teeth. "She should not be alive after what she has attempted! If I had not arrived when I had—if I had not managed to overpower her… how can you accept this, Albus? How is it possible that you are not demanding justice? You are the one insisting that the Dark Lord will return, and when he does, she will once again serve as one of his most loyal and zealous lieutenants. Surely you understand that as long as she can hold a wand, she is a threat. She is as inhuman as he is—"

"Severus. Please. For the time being she will be locked safely away in Azkaban, under twice the usual guard and a host of wards. That is the best we can ask for, given the delicate circumstances. Were the situation less delicate, and did I not share your own fears that you might very well be made into a scapegoat for this debacle, I would certainly insist on greater consequences. But the world being as it is, I must step very carefully around politicians, my dear boy. There will come a day when we will need allies, and if this is the price of unity, I will gladly pay it."

Severus said nothing, only continued to scowl at the weary visage of the headmaster.

"The Minister has personally assured me that there will be no more escapes on his watch," Dumbledore continued, but his tone did not convey much faith in those words.

Severus scoffed. "Of course. If  _Fudge_ has promised you…. Listen to sense, Albus, I beg you. I have no intention of boasting, but I am reasonably skilled at Defense and knowledgeable of the Dark Arts. How do you expect the boy to be protected in his new home? Unless you've a family of Aurors—and particularly competent Aurors at that—he is bound to become the victim of some attempt or another long before he reaches his majority. I swore to protect the boy, but I cannot skulk around after him, acting as the boy's shadow, for the rest of his life, not if I am to assist you with your other  _tasks_. So what is your plan for him? Will you take him to Hogwarts after all, raise him with Minerva? Ah, but perhaps it could be a joint effort amongst the staff. That is certain to be healthy for the boy's stability, a plethora of distant elderly professors constantly passing him about like a Quaffle as they try to keep after their own students—"

"No, Severus, I will not be bringing him to Hogwarts. And no, before you demand it, I am no closer to determining a suitable home for him. The very issues you raise are what complicate this matter so greatly. Not to mention how detrimental it will be for the boy to be raised as a hero and savior rather than as a regular child. The blood wards seem the most viable option at the moment, and I am certain that a few well-chosen words can sink through to Petunia and Vernon—"

"He will  _not_ ," Severus snarled, turning viciously back to the fireplace, "be returning there! Do you understand that, Albus? He would be better off anywhere else! I'd rather see him working in the Hogwarts kitchens alongside the house elves than send him back to that special hellhole."

"You would keep him here?" the Headmaster probed, peering out at Severus over his half-moon spectacles. "If it truly came down to that, Severus, would you—could you—continue to open your home to him?"

Severus fought down the urge to snatch the inkpot from his desk and hurl it into the fire at the old fool's head. "You really think this is the way to go about things? Backing me into a corner, inundating me with guilt, so that I will eventually crack and agree to let the boy stay indefinitely?"

Dumbledore seemed to completely ignore Severus' accusations. "Harry does seem happy with you. He was rather content when I left him yesterday afternoon, despite all he'd suffered."

"Because his expectations for care are abysmally low, if not nonexistent! He was likely grateful I didn't merely shove him in a broom closet like his miserable relatives. And I will not repeat this again: I am  _not_ fit to act as a parent to that boy. I hardly tolerate the screaming miscreants I am paid to teach, and I only have to deal with their presence in measured increments.

"And if you cannot find someone suitable, and quickly, Albus, the boy will end up with the likes of Lucius Malfoy, where he will be pampered and spoilt as a prized acquisition rather than a child in need of boundaries and discipline. Not to mention his likely indoctrination in the Dark Arts should he be carted off to Wiltshire."

Dumbledore heaved a sigh. "I will continue to contemplate the possibilities. But as you've pointed out, Severus, the criteria is quite stringent. Choosing anyone other than you—"

"I am not even an option," Severus snapped, "so please cease speaking as if I am."

"Of course, my boy," Dumbledore sighed wearily. "But our dilemma remains. As I told you when I first called you into my office, before I sent you to Privet Drive, you are the only soul left in the world who might be incorporated into the sacrificial blood wards. I know you refuse to see yourself as suitable guardian material, but if you could just consider the possibility—for Lily, Severus—"

"The Longbottoms. The Weasleys. The Bones. The Diggories. I could go on and on. There are dozens of suitable wizarding families that would fall over themselves at the mere prospect of adopting Famous Harry Potter. You know their affiliations and situations far better than I, so make an annotated list and come up with an alternative! The boy is frantic, Albus. He does not know where he is to go at the end of the week, and he has already asked me if he will be dumped in an orphanage. If you care for him at all, you will come up with an answer for me and spare him further distress."

Dumbledore passed a hand over his face, and the worry lines seemed to deepen with that gesture. "Lucius is pressing for custody," the headmaster informed Severus gravely. "He is making a case based on his opulence—the most comfortable upbringing possible for the Boy Who Lived—and his supposed desire to do penance for his time in Voldemort's service. There will be a hearing a week from today. Half of the families you have named, Severus, would not dare to contend Lucius' claim, knowing what a powerful enemy they would make. And they are all ill-suited, for some reason or another, mostly because they would see the scar before anything else. Harry deserves better than that."

Severus' hands flexed into fists. "I told you," he hissed angrily. "I warned you a week ago that this needed to be seen to, that Lucius posed a real threat, and you brushed me off—"

"Foolish in hindsight, I know," Dumbledore conceded, his eyes straying away from Severus. "I did not realize how determined Lucius was—"

"Certainly not," Severus huffed. "It was not as if I insisted that he be watched closely and dealt with swiftly because I feared this very scenario. He indirectly contributed to Bellatrix's escape, and he still has the gall to claim the child she was hell-bent on destroying! If you cannot propose an alternative, he will win this suit. He is a respected Board Member, he has a son Harry's age, he has more wealth than is decent, and he can claim the ability to 'properly' introduce him to the wizarding world. Half of the Ministry is in his back pocket, and Fudge would sooner publicly wet himself than cross the likes of Lucius. Not to mention the man's influence at the Prophet… they'll make him up to be a saint, you understand, and once public opinion has solidified in his favor—"

"Yes, yes," Dumbledore cut the Potions Master off impatiently. "I do understand the gravity of this, Severus. This is not, as the Muggles say, my first rodeo."

Severus winced at the Headmaster's choice of idiom, and the image it evoked—that of the frail old wizard atop a bucking bull, one hand in the air. "And still you have yet to inform me of what you plan to  _do_! Whatever case you intend to make will have to be able to overcome Lucius' innately strong position—"

"I intend to make the case that Harry belongs with his blood relatives," the Headmaster sighed, "as it is the only one likely to be respected by the Ministry and the wizarding public. And before you protest, Severus, know that were there another option, I would seize upon it in an instant. But as the Dursleys are the only ones to have a legitimate claim on the boy, we will have to rely upon their retention of custody to keep Harry from Lucius—"

"No, absolutely not. I have already promised that boy, in no uncertain terms, that he will not return to his relatives under any circumstances.  _Any_ , Albus, and I intend to keep my word. And if this is the end result, what was the point of removing the boy from their care in the first place? Why not leave the boy condemned to his misery rather than give him a taste of something else, only to take it away?"

"I am not the one choosing to take his home away," Dumbledore murmured.

Severus whipped around violently, barely restraining his wand hand at those words. "He cannot stay here!" Severus bit out. "It is a miserable little house, no place for a child, and I am a miserable man. No matter how many times you repeat your request, my answer will remain the same. This falls on  _your_ head, not mine, for placing him with those abominable excuses for Muggles in the first place. So do not  _dare_ —"

"Severus, please," Dumbledore broke in, his eyes far too wide, his tone too innocent. "I merely meant that Lucius' influence and machinations are far beyond even my rather considerable reach, nothing more. Your protests have been heard and noted, I assure you, and I will see to it that young Harry has somewhere to go at the end of the week, as promised. Likely it will have to be his aunt and uncle for the time being, but not permanently, I assure you. We will need their cooperation for the hearing anyway, if we've any hope of being successful…."

"Keep him at Hogwarts if it's a matter of finding him a temporary home!" Severus fumed. "Sprout's there in perpetuity, minding her plants. She adores children. Grant her a larger stipend and name her the boy's official nanny. Or Hagrid. Surely Hagrid wouldn't mind looking after the boy, especially for a few weeks while you settle matters. I have full confidence that your brilliant mind will find some way to stop Lucius from collecting Potter."

"I have contemplated this, Severus, and I see no other choice. You know our laws and traditions as well as anyone. The wizarding world as a whole respects blood and lineage, and if we've any hope of stopping this before it gains traction, as you rightly fear it will, we must act swiftly. Later, once Lucius has given up this endeavor and the public attention has died down, we might be able to clandestinely resolve the matter of Harry's quality of life. But for the time being a few extra warnings and rudimentary protective charms will have to suffice, as it will be imperative for him to return to Privet Drive for at least a few months—"

"Unless I agree to take the boy in," Severus snapped. "Pray tell, how do you expect adoption by a former Death Eater with no familial ties to resolve this fiasco?"

The ghost of a satisfied smile stretched over Dumbledore's lips, the sight of which only caused Severus' scowl to deepen. "I've a plan, Severus, if you are amenable. But I see no reason to discuss the finer details when you are so dead set against such a thing. Suffice to say that there is a way."

Of course the Headmaster would speak so enigmatically, hoping to whet Severus' curiosity. As if Severus could be so easily manipulated…. The Potions Master shook his head to himself in disgust.

Still…. His thoughts drifted back to the small, skinny boy currently seated at his kitchen table. The boy who had risked his life to save Severus with as hopeless a ploy as throwing stones at Bellatrix LeStrange. The boy who had been too afraid to wake him last night for more pain potion and a glass of water. The boy who'd somehow roused himself early this morning to put breakfast on the table.

Despite his determination to remain detached, Severus felt deep in his core a fierce protectiveness. Potter or not, the child did not deserve to go back to his hateful relatives, where he would be harassed and bullied by that lard balloon he called a cousin, forced to endure long, chore-filled days, stuffed back in his cupboard like an unused Muggle appliance in the evenings….

"I will consider extending Potter's stay," Severus began slowly, trying to ignore the smug, twinkling light that entered the Headmaster's eyes, "on the condition that you earnestly continue to search for alternatives. I will give you my decision by Friday."

"I will await your Floo call, then, my boy. How is our Harry, by the way?"

Severus kept himself from scoffing at the term "our Harry". If he really were to raise the boy… and that was a rather large  _if_ at present… he certainly would not choose Albus Dumbledore as a co-parent. He might even corrupt the child if he were allowed to serve as proxy-grandparent. No, if he had to suffer a young Potter under his roof, the boy had better not take to carrying around lemon drops or speaking in riddles or  _twinkling_.

"The boy is alive and well. He's had his third dose of the regenerative today and is showing minute progress in his recovery."

"And his punishment?" Dumbledore inquired mildly, though Severus heard the concern behind those words.

Severus rolled his eyes. "Writing lines. Later he'll be weeding and scrubbing cauldrons. Certainly that is not too cruel or unusual by your standards?"

"No, certainly not," Dumbledore agreed with a beneficent smile. "Merely an old man's curiosity."

"Making certain that I've not taken a cane to him?" Severus demanded acerbically.

The levity left Dumbledore's expression. "I do trust you, Severus. I would not suggest a more permanent arrangement if I had even the slightest doubt."

"Hmph." Severus tried to ignore the strange feelings that arose in him at those words. Doubt, fear, gratification…. Though he knew better than to take the wily Headmaster's words at face value. "Well, speaking of  _our Harry_ , I'd best check on the menace and make certain he hasn't broken any more glassware, or Merlin forbid started playing with the stove again."

"The stove?" This seemed to genuinely alarm Dumbledore.

Severus snorted. "Oh, yes. He fancied himself a house elf this morning. He tried to make breakfast, likely as a ploy to make amends for his disobedience yesterday. Luckily he did not hurt himself."

A shadow passed over the Headmaster's face, likely the same sorrow Severus had felt seeing a mere eight-year-old so competent in the kitchen. A competence born not of passion, but necessity…. "I won't keep you then. Until Wednesday… early morning again would be best."

Severus nodded once curtly before the connection terminated, the green flames disappearing.

He paused for a moment, the Headmaster's proposition heavy on his mind. Really, how bad could the boy be? He was quiet enough. A bit troublesome from time to time, certainly, but not maliciously so, and he seemed genuinely remorseful once he'd been chastised.

 _For Lily_.

That argument had lodged itself firmly in his head and refused to leave. Yes, he'd sworn to do what he could to protect her son, but this? Would she even want him anywhere near her precious child? Wouldn't she be mortified to learn that an ex-Death Eater was acting as her boy's guardian?

But with the alternatives…. Severus shook his head to himself. Lily might not be happy, but he was positive she would choose him over her hateful sister, or worse, a  _true_ Death Eater like Lucius.

The only question was, was he up to the task? Dumbledore thought so, but Dumbledore believed the best of people. He'd been wrong about the Dursleys, and he certainly could be wrong about Severus.

One week, Severus thought, finally shaking himself out of his reverie and undoing the wards on his door. One week to decide.

But even now, it seemed there was only one real choice.

  


	11. Quills

Harry was certain about one thing: the Professor was going to kill him. Or, at the very least, finally make good on his threat of sending Harry away.

Harry stared miserably down at the mess of ink and parchment spread before him. Why, oh, why couldn't he use the stupid feather thing the Professor had left out for him? It shouldn't have been that hard, not really, but for some reason he couldn't get the hang of it.

He'd really tried, too. He'd dipped the feather-pen into the ink and tried so hard to copy the words the Professor had painstakingly written out for him. Not words about Harry being a stupid, selfish, thoughtless little boy or a burden. Words about safety and respect. Complicated words, too, like the Professor thought that Harry wasn't as dumb as his aunt and uncle liked to say. And all he'd managed to do, after blotting ink everywhere across the parchment and smearing it on his hands and clothes when he tried to mop it up, was scratch out a single, childish copy of the line. Barely legible, and he'd pierced the parchment in several places—and the ink of his script was uneven, fading in some places and far too thick in others.

The sight of the botched mess before him made his throat tighten unpleasantly and his stomach churn, and tears pricked in his eyes as he thought about how the Professor would look when he came upon this. Not only had Harry failed to make any progress on his punishment, but he'd made another mess of things. He'd even stained the table in some places, though he'd vigorously tried to scrub the ink away, both with his sleeves and a dampened rag from under the sink.

Harry cast another nervous glance toward the sitting room, wondering how awful it would be to go get the Professor now. He could see the man's face darkening in his mind, maybe turning purple like Uncle Vernon's, and he would shout about how worthless Harry was, and how awful it was to have him around….

No, Harry decided, he was going to fix this before the Professor even found out. If he only knew how to clean up ink…. But that was just the thing with this black ink. Every time he tried to wipe it away, it only seemed to spread. Water didn't work; it only diluted the stuff. And besides, he'd already gotten it all over most of the clean parchment the Professor had provided. There was no way to fix that.

If only the Professor had given him a ballpoint pen….

Harry stared for a moment longer at the hopeless mess, then scurried over to the cabinet beneath the sink. That was where his Aunt Petunia always kept her cleaning supplies, so there might be something….

"Merlin, Potter, what…."

Harry whipped around, startled to his feet. His heart started pounding out a painful rhythm in his chest as the terrible scene he'd been imagining for the past hour started to unfold before his eyes.

The Professor was standing at the entrance to the kitchen, massaging his forehead with the tips of his fingers. His other hand rested unpromisingly on his hip.

"I'm sorry," Harry choked out, dropping his eyes to the ground and twisting his ink-stained hands into his oversized shirt. How he wished he could just do something  _right_ for a change so that he wasn't always apologizing so pathetically to the man.

Harry could feel the man's gaze piercing him, stripping him to the bone, though he couldn't bring himself to lift his head.

"You've gotten ink on your face—in your  _hair…_."

Harry closed his eyes tight and waited, feeling very much like a prisoner awaiting his sentence. "Sorry," he repeated in a frail whisper.

"You couldn't be bothered to do your punishment, so you decided to finger-paint with the ink instead?" Snape demanded frostily.

Harry forced himself to swallow, even though his throat was so tight it ached. "I—I didn't mean to, I just couldn't get the feather to write like a pen, and I thought I needed more ink, but then I got  _too_ much, and it blobbed on the paper, so I tried to get it off, and then I got some on the table, so I tried to wipe it away, but that just made a bigger mess, and—and I didn't know what to do, but I was going to clean it up—"

"Muggles," Snape muttered irritably, sounding as if he were speaking more to himself than to Harry. "Muggles don't use  _quills_ , of course…."

Harry suddenly found his head tilted sharply up by the Professor's long, cool fingers. The man was staring down at him, his expression strangely impassive for as angry as he'd seemed just seconds before. He'd lifted his wand to Harry's face.

Harry flinched back automatically, sure that the man was going to use magic to punish him somehow. He was pretty sure the Professor knew some awful spells he could use if he really wanted to….

But when the Professor flicked his wand, Harry just felt a strange, warm fizzing across his face, like thousands of tiny bubbles. It was almost pleasant.

"Hands now," the man commanded, gesturing with his wand to indicate that Harry should lift them. Another flick and more almost-pleasant fizzing and the ink that had stained Harry's hands had vanished.

Harry pressed himself into the corner as the Professor set the rest of the kitchen back to rights. The man seemed more weary than furious, but Harry thought that meant nothing. His aunt and uncle could go from shaking their heads quietly in disbelief to spitting fire (or close to it) in just seconds.

Finally the Professor turned back to Harry. His brow furrowed slightly as Harry instinctively pressed further back into his corner. The man looked as if he might sneer and make some snide comment for a moment, but in the end he closed his mouth and simply crooked a finger at Harry, gesturing for him to come forward.

Harry tried to straighten his shoulders and spine and at least face the man's wrath with some dignity. He hated when he hunched down before his aunt and uncle just before they announced some cruel punishment, or launched into a tirade on how terribly useless and ungrateful a boy he was. It felt a little better if he could stand and take it, and act like the sharp words weren't really hurting him. Even though they felt like they were cutting him to ribbons every time.

He shuffled forward a few feet until he was standing directly in front of the Professor.

"Is there some reason," the man began slowly, one long finger tapping impatiently against his black-clad arm, "that you did not seek me out as soon as you began having difficulties?"

Harry bit his lower lip hard. That was a stupid question, though he would never say as much to the Professor. Harry hadn't wanted the man to find out about this at all…. "I thought I could clean it up," he replied, trying to speak clearly. His uncle hated it when he mumbled.

"And how, exactly, would that have helped you with your inability to use a quill?" the Professor demanded sharply.

Harry shifted his weight restlessly. He didn't understand the Professor's questions—or, at least, why the man was bothering to ask these things. Did he want Harry to apologize for being so clumsy and useless too? For not being able to write with the stupid feather pen? "It wouldn't, but—but… Professor, I really did try to write my lines, honest. I did my best but I just couldn't… I'm real sorry that I'm no good at writing with—with the feather—"

"Quill," the Professor corrected, his tone still piercing. "And I am not asking you to be sorry for you lack of skills, you foolish boy. I am asking why it did not cross your feeble brain to  _tell_  me that you had no idea what you were doing. Did you honestly believe that I could reasonably expect you to be able to write your lines when you'd never so much as seen a quill in your life?"

Harry felt a flush steal over his face. The Professor sounded like he thought Harry was especially dense. And maybe he was, because he still didn't quite understand why the Professor wasn't yelling at him for making such an awful mess and making no progress with his work. "I didn't want to bother you, sir—"

"Yes, it was  _much_ more practical for you to simply struggle on your own. The results speak for themselves." The Professor shook his head in irritation. "Or did you think that I would prefer you to coat yourself and my kitchen in ink?"

Harry shook his head. "I should have been more careful—"

"You should have spoken up!" The Professor grabbed Harry by the arm then, and steered him over to the table, forcing him back into the chair he'd been sitting in all morning. The parchment was back to normal then—clean, miraculously, except for the sheet Harry had tried to write on, and stacked beside the inkwell. "If you do not know how to do something, Potter, the logical thing to do is to  _ask for help._  Is that clear?"

Harry bobbed his head once, stunned. Wasn't the Professor more upset about the disaster Harry had created? Sure, it had been easy enough for the man to clear up, just a few waves of his wand…. And that wasn't all. It had been  _ages_  since the man had set him to writing lines, and Harry had barely scratched out one. Why wasn't he yelling about that?

No, instead he was lecturing Harry about asking for help. As if he would have given it. As if the Professor expected Harry to need help in things, and wouldn't be annoyed—or, at least, not too annoyed—if Harry went to him. As if it were okay to admit that he couldn't do everything by himself.

His aunt and uncle hated when Harry needed things or didn't know how to do things. Learning chores when he had been little had been awful for that reason. Asking for help was the equivalent of asking to be berated and insulted, called stupid and lazy and worthless….

But the Professor was different. How many times was Harry going to have to learn this same lesson? He should know by now. After all, hadn't the man given Harry really good medicine and sat with him after his nightmare, and made him a night light to keep by his bedside? And hadn't he bought Harry toys, and let him read his books, and not sent Harry away, even when he'd disobeyed the Professor and caused all kinds of trouble and almost gotten himself killed?

"Potter!"

Harry snapped out of his reverie and glanced apprehensively up at the Professor's face, which was now lined with impatience.

"An answer, if you will."

Harry swallowed thickly. "I'll… I'll ask for help, sir, if I need it."

The Professor's lips were still thin and unhappy, his arms still folded tightly over his chest. "Even when your foolish pride demands otherwise, yes?"

Harry didn't really see what pride had to do with anything. He just hadn't wanted to make the Professor mad if he could help it. But he answered "yes, sir" in his meekest tone anyway.

"Good," the Professor approved, though his voice was still cold. "Why don't you practice now?"

Harry's head snapped up, startled. "P-practice?"

"Abandoning your ridiculous pride and admitting you need help. Your stubbornness forms a disturbing pattern, Potter, with destructive consequences. Need I remind you of the glass you broke just last night because you were too proud to wake me?"

Harry shook his head, dropping his eyes again.

"Let's hear it, Potter, while I'm still young."

Harry wetted his lips, drowning in uncertainty. "Professor," he began hesitantly, "w-would you help me with the feath—with the quill?"

In his familiar sarcastic drawl, the Professor replied, "I would be delighted."

Harry could not help but marvel a little at the Professor's patience with him. The man sat him down for a good half an hour and showed him everything from how to sharpen and maintain his quill point to how to keep from getting ink blots on the paper. He even demonstrated how to control the width and shape of the line, and had Harry write out the alphabet, capitol and lower-case, in order to make sure that the boy had a decent grasp on writing. The man continually adjusted Harry's grip on the quill, occasionally covering Harry's hand with his own and guiding it on the parchment so that he could demonstrate the motions.

Finally, after Harry had written out his first actual line—much more legible, though still far from perfect—the Professor seemed satisfied with Harry's abilities.

"Now," the man sighed, straightening from where he'd been bent over the table, observing Harry. "I think we have that sorted. Continue your lines. I will be working in my lab until lunch. If you need me for anything, Potter, you are to come and get me.  _Anything_. I want no more disasters in my home because you foolishly thought you could manage on your own." Without waiting for a response, the Professor stalked from the room, deigning to cast one final glare of warning at his young charge.

The hours ticked by slowly. Harry knew that his punishment could have been much worse than having to copy lines with the finicky, old-fashioned writing instrument he was still fighting with, but as the minutes ticked by, and as the numbered list of the meticulously-copied lines grew, his hand started to cramp and his body ached from the hard chair. He had to stop, set the quill down— _carefully, Potter, so the ink doesn't seep everywhere_ —and shake out his hand just to combat the writer's cramp that seemed to be growing at an exponential rate. Too, he found himself fidgeting in his chair, shifting this way and that, experimentally leaning his weight forward and back and eventually drawing his legs up beneath him so he could rest on his calves.

At least the tremors didn't return.  _That_  would have been a real problem, given how easy it was to make a complete mess of things with the dark, tacky ink.

By the time the Professor entered into the kitchen, Harry's hand was aching and his whole lower body felt painfully stiff. He hadn't dared waste too much time stretching out or flexing his hand, since he'd already lost so much time that morning and wanted to have a good amount of lines done to show the Professor that he was taking his chastisement seriously.

The man said nothing, only stepped quietly behind him to observe him at work. Harry continued to scratch out his latest line, working to ignore the Professor's piercing gaze.

_I will obey all adults and rules set by—_

Blast it! Harry felt a deep crimson blush burning on his cheeks. He'd lost his concentration. He resisted the urge to steal a glance up at the Professor; he didn't want to see the man's sneer or disapproving look anyway, he reminded himself. Instead, he dipped his quill back into the ink pot, fighting to keep it steady—now, he knew, the tremors were from nerves, nothing else—and carefully struck a line through the botched sentence.

_Focus_ , he ordered himself.  _I will obey all rules and strictures…_ he dipped the quill again, carefully to allow the excess to drip off back into the pot, just as the Professor had showed him. … _set by adults, as disobeying…_ Ach, that last word was running together, and his letters were so  _ugly_. The Professor had to be scoffing at him and shaking his head right now. … _not only endangers my life but also… demonstrates a marked lack of respect for my elders._  There. He'd finished, and the sentence was larger than the others, and crooked, and less legible—and, frankly, less than legible in general, except maybe to Harry, who knew how to decipher it.

Shaking his head to himself, he thought it would be better not to even count that line. No way would the Professor think that Harry had done it up to his standards…. He dipped the quill to strike through that line too, but the Professor interrupted him.

"Good enough for now, Potter. Stopper the ink and stack everything neatly over on the opposite side of the table, and then go wash up."

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. He was ready to be done for a moment, and if the Professor hadn't noticed his atrocious writing…. Well, sure the man would notice later. He wasn't the kind of person to let little details slip by him, Harry knew. But it was nice not to have to deal with it just now.

So Harry murmured a quiet "yes, sir", and did as he was bade.

"And change your shirt!" the Professor added just before Harry made it out of the kitchen.

Harry glanced, abashed, down at the dark ink blots that marred his sleeves. It hadn't really bothered him, since this was a really old shirt from Dudley, one that already had too many tiny holes in it to count, and stains on both sides as well as on the sleeves. Harry thought that the new dark stains might even be covering up some worse-looking spots, blotches of something rust-colored that looked nasty against the yellow cream fabric.

Besides that, Harry  _hated_  yellow. Especially this incarnation of the color. He'd dye the whole shirt black with ink if he didn't think the Professor would just murder him for that kind of tomfoolery.

Well, he would change. Though he was out of clean shirts now. But he could just do like he did at the Dursleys, start rotating shirts. Which meant he would probably be stuck in that horrid mustard-yellow jumper that he'd worn on his first night in Spinner's End….

Well. No use in dwelling on it, Harry figured.

Minutes later he was washed and changed, once again in the mustard jumper, with the sleeves rolled up so far that they formed ridiculous bulky cuffs at Harry's wrists. There was simply too much excess sleeve to leave them unrolled, though.

The Professor studied Harry quietly for a moment from his place at the sink, his lips pursed in a small frown. He said nothing, in the end, about Harry's attire, instead ordering brusquely, "Come, up by the sink. I assume you can handle washing a few fruits and vegetables?"

Harry did as he was instructed, carefully rinsing two apples and scrubbing a handful of carrots beneath the ice-cold water of the faucet. He didn't know if the Professor thought of this as a chore or a part of his punishment—after all, he had announced that Harry could help with the meals that morning, but it had sounded more like a concession than anything. But whatever the man thought, Harry was quietly pleased to be working alongside the Professor.

After all, it was nothing like making meals at the Dursleys. Had he been back with his aunt and uncle, his aunt would have hovered over him, her shrewd eyes darting over his work, speaking only to disperse criticisms and admonishments to work faster or harder or more efficiently. But here… here, the Professor handled most of the work, even though it was just slicing bread and assembling their sandwiches, then peeling and cutting the carrots, most done with a lazy flick of his wand.

But there was something comfortable in the silence they shared, which was broken only when the Professor asked if he wanted any condiments on his sandwich. Which were, the Professor explained with a mild glare as Harry stifled the urge to giggle, things like mustard and mayo, and  _not_ anything inappropriate.

Once they'd sat down to eat with their plates, Harry began to seriously contemplate the Professor's current mood. Despite the awful night and all the things Harry had messed up that morning, the man did not seem too irritable. In fact, he seemed pretty even-tempered.

And it was probably a good idea, Harry decided, swallowing past the sudden lump in his throat, to take advantage of the Professor's knowledge while he still could. Because if he was going to a new family at the end of the week—which now seemed wholly inevitable, Harry thought, because there was no  _way_  the Professor would even consider letting him stay after all the trouble he'd caused—he might not have a chance to ask all his stupid questions about wizards and magic. If he got it all out of his system, maybe he could make a good impression on his new family by not asking too many questions and seeming like he already knew lots about everything.

"Sir?" Harry asked tentatively, testing the waters.

The Professor finished sipping his water and set it meticulously down on the table, leveling a bland stare at Harry. "What?"

Not too angry and biting, Harry decided. That was a good sign. "I was wondering, sir…. Do you know why wizards use feath—quills—instead of normal pens?"

The man arched a brow at Harry. But it wasn't a  _how can you be so stupid_  look, Harry knew. It was more of a  _where do you come up with these questions_ look. "Generally speaking, the ink used with quills takes to spells easier than the mass-produced rubbish Muggles put into their  _ballpoint pens_." Snape sneered the last two words as if he regretted letting them touch his tongue, so palpable was their taint. "Too, I think you will find that the wizarding world tends to be old-fashioned, and clings to its traditions with an unnatural ferocity. Heritage often takes precedence over convenience or practicality." The Professor paused, his gaze shifting far beyond Harry for a moment. "And one might make the argument for aesthetics, I suppose… the calligraphic script produced by quills is by far superior to the scraggly little lines those Muggle devices create."

Harry nodded to himself, storing the information—or, the gist of it, at least—away for future contemplation. "Thank you, sir."

The Professor nodded marginally in acknowledgment, his customary response to Harry's expression of thanks. Harry got the impression that, even though the Professor didn't show it, he liked it when Harry was overly polite and respectful, so he made sure to thank the Professor for everything. At the very least, taking that precaution would keep him from sinking any lower in the Professor's estimation. He hoped….

Deciding that he was feeling brave, and bolstered especially by the Professor's lengthy and thoughtful reply, Harry decided to try his luck. Besides, he only had a few days left with the man… and he had to know. The man's mention of his mother had been niggling at the back of his mind all morning, threatening to distract him from the task of writing out lines.

The man had known his mother, and made a promise to her to help keep Harry safe. And that was more than anyone had ever told him about his mum. Except, well, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, but they'd said  _awful_ things, and Professor Dumbledore had said that all of them were lies, that they hadn't died in a car crash, that they hadn't been drunks or unemployed or mooches, that they had been brave and good and kind.

But those were all general things, the kinds of nice things that you said about people after they'd passed away. They didn't mean anything.

But the Professor had known his mum somehow, which meant he could tell Harry real things, like her favorite color and foods, and what she liked to wear, and what her best subjects in school had been, and maybe even what her voice had sounded like.

"Sir?"

The Professor lifted his eyes to the ceiling for a moment before dropping them back to Harry. "Yes, Potter?"

Uh oh. Sounded like the patience was wearing thin now. Maybe that last question had taken a lot out of him. Well, better to ask his question and see what he made of it. If the man snapped at Harry to stop pestering him, well, he could clam right up.

"You said you knew my mother."

The Professor's face hardened. "I did," he replied carefully, his words clipped and his dark eyes dangerous.

Harry almost stopped there. But he just had to know, if there was the slightest chance that the Professor might share something with him…. "I… I was wondering…. Could you maybe… tell me about her? Please?" Harry hoped his voice didn't sound too wheedling or desperate, but he knew it must, because he could barely contain himself.

Maybe it was stupid to want to know things about parents who were already dead and gone. After all, learning more about them wasn't going to bring them back, and knowing little details about them couldn't possibly do Harry any good. For a long time now Harry had known that it was just better to forget about them and concentrate on the future, because thinking about what might have been would only hurt him and make him miserable.

But he still had to know. And he couldn't change that longing.

He watched the Professor's face very carefully, searching for the barest shifts and hints in the man's expression. If it turned stormy and angry, like he feared, Harry was ready to apologize profusely for bothering the man. Then he would promise to never bring it up again, and he would eat the rest of his meal in perfect silence. And hopefully that would smooth things over.

But there was no flash of anger, as Harry had feared. If anything, the man's features grew more drawn and a touch paler, and something like sorrow emerged in the Professor's dark eyes. He did not speak at first. His gaze shifted to a point beyond Harry, as it sometimes did.

After a few moments of his heart pounding in his ears amidst the ominous silence, Harry was on the verge of blurting out his apology and returning to his meal.

But then the Professor spoke. "What would you like to know?"

Harry felt a special warmth flood through him. The man was going to tell him something, not just dismiss him completely. And what  _would_ he ask? What did he want to know the most? There was no way to organize the chaos of his thoughts. Did his mum have many friends? Was the Professor one of them? Did he look like her at all? What did she look like  _exactly_? And what had she done for work, or did she stay at home with Harry?

Then Harry realized that he had no idea how the man knew his mother. That would be a good place to start. "Did you teach my mum in school, sir?" he asked shyly.

For a moment Harry thought he'd  _really_ screwed up. The man looked appalled, his brow furrowing darkly as if Harry had seriously offended him. And Harry didn't know what he'd said. The man  _was_  a professor, right? Wasn't it reasonable for him to assume that he might have taught his mum? Because his mum had been a wizard—no, witch, Harry remembered, girls were  _witches_ , the Professor had told him—and he knew the Professor taught at Hogwarts, which was the only magical school he knew of.

But the Professor's fury ebbed as quickly as it had flared, though his words were still terse with irritation. "Just how old do you think I am, Potter?"

Oh. Harry hadn't figured on that, had he? Because he didn't know how old his mum would be now. Younger than his Aunt Petunia, he knew. But he had no idea how old the Professor was. He studied the man surreptitiously from beneath his fringe, but that was no help. The man was  _older_ , but how old, Harry couldn't say. Not too old. Clearly not so old that he could have taught Harry's mum.

Harry swallowed thickly and mumbled, "Sorry, sir."

The Professor let out a breath rather noisily and rolled his eyes to the ceiling, his favorite gesture as far as Harry was concerned. "No, I didn't  _teach_  your mother, Merlin forbid. We were the same age. She grew up in the same neighborhood as I did."

"Here?" Harry asked breathily, unable to contain his excitement.

Snape winced. "Close to here. A little ways away, in a much… nicer… part of town."

Harry almost asked if the man would show him his mum's old house, but stopped himself. He was only going to be here for a few days more, and on punishment. It would be stupid of him to ask for such a large favor, and he would just irritate the Professor with his request anyway.

Harry was just sifting through the myriad of other questions he longed to ask, trying to decide how best to steer the conversation, when the Professor spoke again. His words were soft, musing, almost as if he'd forgotten entirely about Harry's presence.

"Well, I suppose it is incorrect to say that I didn't teach her  _at all_ ," he murmured, resting his elbows on the table and steepling his fingers. His eyes were still fixed on a distant point. Maybe the past, Harry thought. Some adults seemed to be like that, seemed to see the past as a physical place way out on the horizon somewhere. "Your mother had no idea that she was a witch, and she came from a family of Muggles. She knew nothing of our world—not about Hogwarts or owls or even wands. I taught her everything I knew. She was always full of questions…."

For a moment, Snape's eyes drifted back to Harry, and they were not keen and piercing as they normally were. They were soft, unfocused in a way, as if he were seeing Harry through a thick haze. And in that look Harry could read the unspoken  _like you_.

Harry swallowed hard, fighting down the strange, warm sadness that was rising up in him and forcing tears to prickle at his eyes. Despite clearing his throat, though, his words were still rough. "Did she have to learn to use a quill too?"

Snape's eyes shifted to the beyond again, and a sad smile tugged at his lips—just a faint lift at the corners, but on the man's normally dour face the change was as noticeable as a full-blown grin. "Yes, she did. She shared some of your complaints. Though she did manage to keep from getting ink  _everywhere_  on her first attempt."

Harry blushed. "You showed her how to write with one?"

Snape closed his eyes lightly. His head tipped forward a little toward his steepled fingers. "I did. Our first summer… she asked how wizards wrote letters. So I told her, and then showed her. She sent me a letter every day after that. I lent her a quill and ink, but no parchment, so she used the pathetically thin paper that you could buy from Muggle print shops. The ink soaked through horribly, and her penmanship was atrocious…."

"But it got better?" Harry asked quietly, almost afraid to interrupt. It was like a spell had settled over the Professor, and Harry was afraid that reminding the man of his existence would shatter the whole thing. And then he would never learn anything more about his mum.

Snape dipped his head slightly in affirmation. "It improved, yes, with practice." And then the man's eyes snapped open, just as Harry had feared they would. They were cool and present again, polished onyx rather than concentrated black smoke. "Enough reminiscing. Finish your lunch, Potter. You have chores to complete this afternoon."

And with that the Professor rose rather jerkily, clearing his place—though he'd only finished half of the food on his plate—and noisily consigning his dishes to the sink.

"You can start with tidying up in here. Wash and dry the dishes by hand, wipe down the counters… then, I think, you can tend to some weeding for a bit." And with that the Professor swept out, dark robes fluttering behind him.

Harry stared unhappily down at his half-finished turkey sandwich.  _Well_ , he told himself,  _it was more than you thought you would get_. And it wasn't as if the Professor had made some snide, cutting remark as he sometimes did when he was in a particularly prickly mood. He'd only shut down and left, nothing more. No remarks about how Harry was an uncouth little cretin, prying into private memories as if he had a right to them….

Well, that sentiment was definitely more Dursley. The Professor insulted Harry, but never quite as nastily as his relatives. For Snape, it seemed it was more sport or an outlet for frustration, never a means of cutting Harry off at the knees and reminding him of his place.

Still, even the absence of harsh words did nothing to quell the painful longing left in the absence of Snape's words. The first time that someone had bothered to really tell Harry about his parents—even just about his mum—and now he felt an unquenchable thirst. To know more. Everything about her. He wanted Snape to talk for days, for him to drag every last tiny, insignificant detail out of his brain, as if all those memories could somehow make up for Harry's mother's eternal absence.

It never would. Harry knew that. It felt like a very adult thing to know, that no matter how much you knew about a person and how much you wished they were still alive, it wouldn't make a difference. Harry knew he longed for something that would forever be just out of his reach. Like the Greek guy they'd learned about in primary, when their teacher had told them lots and lots of stories about the gods and goddesses. Tanta-something-or-other, who was sentenced to stand in a pool with a fruit tree above him, starving and thirsty. And for all eternity he would try to drink but never be able to lower his head to the water, or try to eat but never be able to reach the fruit.

Except Tanta-whoever had actually done lots of awful things to deserve his punishment. Harry didn't remember exactly what, but he was pretty sure it involved stealing and killing. And Harry hadn't done anything. Some crazy evil wizard had just decided to kill an innocent baby, and Harry's parents had just happened to be in the way.

Harry pushed himself violently away from the table, suddenly deciding that he was no longer hungry. That, and he was suddenly in dire need of a distraction. Even chores.

But as Harry scrubbed their plates (there really wasn't much to clean up, given how simple their lunch had been), his thoughts kept drifting away to daydreams of a red-haired girl and a dark-haired boy and lazy summer days spent beneath a large tree, parchment and ink spread before them, as the dark-haired boy explained,  _See, if the angle isn't correct, the line will be sloppy…._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to those who pointed out that I'd posted duplicate chapters. My bad! So sorry! Here is the real text, please enjoy!


	12. Memories

It was one of those things that, once seen, once understood, it could not be unseen. Much as Severus wanted to, much as he wanted to wedge that safe distance back between them, and return to an aloof, cordial coexistence for the remainder of their prescribed cohabitation. Much as he wanted to pretend that he was not considering the headmaster’s words more and more, turning them over in his mind, examining his teaching experience and Head of House duties and trying to fathom how much would translate to _actual_ parenting.

 

Because the boy was Lily incarnate. Once the parallel had been drawn, it was if the bright red-headed girl he’d been drawn to as a child had been superimposed over the boy. His curiosity, his endless questions, the way those green eyes brightened with awe at every tiny revelation about the wizarding world… that was all Lily. In retrospect, instructing the boy on the basics of quill usage had been nothing more than history repeating itself. Certainly Severus’ body was older, carried more scars and aches… but he had lived that scene already. Not at his kitchen table. And in those days he’d had to sneak quill and ink from his mother, who guarded her wizarding things jealously in a house where there was little enough money for necessities, let alone the frivolities of ‘their kind’, as Tobias would call it.

 

And yes, he’d instructed the boy with the wisdom of many more years behind him. But how could he forget the way he’d guided Lily’s hand over the parchment, the way he’d patiently helped her to form all the letters of the alphabet so that she could see just how to best manage their curves and twists? And the little ink stains on her hands when they’d finished… he hadn’t dared to tease her about the dark splotches, but she’d teased herself, laughing about how much of a mess she’d made. And she’d smiled at him—gratefully, with a bit of self-deprecation mixed in, and her eyes had sparkled with genuine delight. And Severus’ heart had felt so full.

 

Her son hadn’t smiled, no. Severus almost wished…. But he was going soft. It had been a punishment for the boy, an exercise in meditation for the little monster so that he would think twice about simply going his own way and nearly getting himself killed. Something to teach him that an eight-year-old boy was not the epitome of wisdom and good judgment, and would have to rely on others to keep him safe and sane. Copying lines had not been an exercise set for the boy’s enjoyment. If anything, it was an exercise to keep him occupied for the morning, and hopefully out of further mischief.

 

No, the boy had not smiled as he’d struggled through the exercises. But as he’d grown more adept, there had been a quiet air of satisfaction about him that also spoke of Lily. A Lily older than her son’s current age, but Lily nonetheless—Lily leaning over a simmering cauldron, Lily penning the conclusion to a long and well-planned essay, Lily demonstrating a complicated charm she’d worked endlessly to master.

 

Severus shoved his lesson plan aside, giving up on even attempting it. There was no point; he was hopelessly distracted.

 

He could see himself keeping the boy. And that terrified him more than anything ever had.

 

Because it was just as he’d told Albus. What did _he_ know about rearing a child? His own childhood was a wasteland, brightened only by moments of kindness shared between him and his mother—rare occasions when Eileen was not too bitter or catatonic to offer a little comfort to her only son. Certainly he could not fashion himself after his own parents and hope to succeed by imitation.

 

And the Headmaster was certainly no parental figure. Too removed, too involved in his own political schemes and manipulations, too busy safeguarding the world from itself…. And too indulgent by far. Albus held human nature in far too high of esteem, and he would expect a child to develop and live by his own moral code rather than set strict boundaries and consequences. Which would lead to a spoiled, out-of-control boy floundering about, trying to make sense of right and wrong…. And no, Severus would not have that.

 

Severus knew that he wanted the boy for all the wrong reasons. Not to care for him, not to raise him to a happy adulthood…. No, now he wanted the boy to preserve the last bit of Lily left on the face of the earth. To live out childhood memories through the woman’s son. And that was not acceptable.

 

He would have to give the boy up, to follow through with the original plan. Because it could do Potter no good to remain here.

 

Besides, it wasn’t as if the boy was actually happy here. The only reason he was even moderately content was because he’d been so miserable under his relatives’ roof.

 

And speaking of miserable…..

 

Severus rose from his desk and made his way out to the sitting room, intending to peer out into the yard to check on the boy. It had been nearly an hour since he’d sent the boy out with instructions to weed the two side plant beds—the only safe parts of the garden. Normally he would just spray on a solution or utter a de-weeding charm, but he’d decided that a little labor would do his charge some good. Perhaps it would tire him out. And a tired Potter would hopefully be less inclined to cause mischief.

 

The boy was not where he’d left him. He’d apparently finished with the two beds and had moved on to the lawn proper. Severus watched from the window for a few moments as the boy’s tiny, frail form, hunched over on his knees, dragged stubborn weed after stubborn weed out of the earth, piling them neatly at his side. He worked diligently, Severus had to admit, and with purpose. Probably instilled into him by those insufferable muggles….

 

Severus abruptly strode out to the backyard, his gait agitated. “Potter!” he called, managing to startle the boy.

 

Potter was on his feet in seconds, his eyes wide behind his glasses, one hand still nervously clutching at a fistful of chickweed. “S-sir?” he stammered.

 

“Leave that,” he commanded, gesturing to the weed, “and come inside. I told you to do the beds, didn’t I?”

 

Potter cast his eyes down and stared at his ratty trainers. “Y-yes, but—“

 

“Not the yard. Are you too foolish to know when your task has been completed?”

 

“No, sir—“

 

“Well,” Severus snapped, feeling unjustifiably irritated, “it certainly seems like it. Go on, go shower off and get into some clean clothes.”

 

Potter bobbed his head in acknowledgment. “I’m sorry, sir—“

 

“What are you apologizing for?”

 

The boy shrugged, his chin still tucked pitifully against his chest.

 

Severus’ jaw clenched automatically, his teeth grinding. “Verbal answers, Potter!” The boy flinched, and Severus sighed. Temper, he reminded himself. “Never mind; go bathe.”

 

Potter fled without another backward glance.

 

Severus raised a weary hand to rub at his eye. Merlin, he was not fit for this. At least the tremors hadn’t started back up. The younger the body, it seemed, the more resilient it was in face of spell damage, particularly the Cruciatus Curse. Then again, Bellatrix was a veritable prodigy when it came to inflicting pain. She’d likely attenuated the strength of her curses to an optimal level, with the intent of prolonging the boy’s agony. Maybe she’d intended to drive him into madness like the Longbottoms before finally killing him. Yes, destroying the boy utterly would be more her style….

 

Severus pulled himself from such morose thoughts. The boy was alive, well, and in his care for a few more days at least. If he could just focus on keeping Potter that way…. He shook his head to himself. Impossible task that that was.

 

He still needed to do something about the boy’s clothing, too, he reminded himself. Perhaps tonight.

 

And in the meantime… well, there was an entire afternoon to fill. And after setting the boy to weeding, he didn’t think it would be terribly humane to have him start on cauldrons already. So, more lines?

 

No, the boy’s hand would cramp, possibly fall off. He’d seen the way Potter had cradled it throughout lunch, trying to be stealthy about his discomfort. Yes, doubtless the boy had had enough of that particular form of torture for one day.

 

And really, he thought, it wasn’t as if the child hadn’t already suffered at the hands of Bellatrix. Potter seemed genuinely remorseful, and he’d behaved himself for the most part—barring, of course, the shattered glass and ink stains. Though Severus knew that he could not read genuine malice in those actions, just ineptitude. Products of his upbringing, even.

 

Well. He wouldn’t _reward_ the boy, per se, but there was no need to be an entirely heartless bastard.

 

Potter returned a quarter of an hour later, his glasses fogged, his hair slick and wet, plastered to his head. His green eyes stayed mostly on the floor, as was the boy’s habit, though they darted up on occasion, full of nervous apprehension.

 

Merlin, the boy _still_ looked as though he expected to be beaten. Severus found himself wondering, not for the first time, just what those vile Muggles had done to him. Though Severus knew that his own demeanor could easily contribute to that impression. Half of the student population, best as he could tell, was convinced that he kept whips and canes around to use on particularly recalcitrant students during detentions. And of course he did nothing to discourage such rumors.

 

“You may read quietly for the remainder of the afternoon,” Severus told the boy coolly, watching with some gratification as shock, then disbelief, then finally relief, twisted over the boy’s face. “Provided you can keep yourself out of trouble. One toe out of line and you will be harvesting flobberworm mucus instead.”

 

Potter’s face practically glowed by the time Severus had finished speaking. For a moment he was afraid that the boy was going to do something foolish and awkward, like hug him.

 

“Well?” Severus snapped, shifting uncomfortably under that worshipful gaze. Just because he hadn’t flayed the brat….

 

“Yes, sir,” the boy agreed readily, and correctly interpreting his dismissal, scampered off to the bookshelves.

 

Severus shook his head to himself, thoughts involuntarily straying back to parenting. Clearly the boy respected and listened to him, and that was an essential foundation. It was more than he had with most of the screaming miscreants he was forced to teach, even the more tolerable breed that ended up in his own house.

 

But respect was not everything, he knew. He’d seen it in the pureblood families, the haunted looks in children who had worlds of _respect_ for their wealthy, powerful parents, but no affection, no emotional connection. And not that Severus was the most sentimental of creatures, but even he could appreciate—from a purely clinical standpoint, of course—that some kind of underlying bond was necessary between parent and progeny, or surrogate parent and ward. Something founded in trust, colored by mutual fondness. No, Severus had no firsthand experience with that kind of relationship, but he could not help but believe that he would be a very different man today if either of his parents had shown him such a degree of care.

 

As it was, his mother’s love had been sparse and erratic. She had been too self-absorbed to take a genuine, prolonged interest in her son, and more often than not she’d looked at him with disgust—her child with tainted blood, the reason that she could not return to her wealthy, respected wizarding family, the reason she was trapped with an abusive, alcoholic Muggle husband in a dingy little squat.

 

And his father… well. He’d never wanted children, and Severus was not only another mouth to feed, but a _wizard_ to boot, devil’s spawn, half-animal. The only attention the man had paid to Severus was with his belt or fists, and even that contact was often followed by slurred Hail Maries in an effort to contain the dark taint of magic. It certainly didn’t help Severus’ case that Eileen’s Prince inheritance—a pittance of books and artifacts that she’d managed to smuggle away with her— _were_ Dark, and proudly advertised the fact with their gruesome illustrations and general evil aura.

 

Severus shook his head to himself as he retreated back into his lab. Well, he knew how _not_ to behave.

 

He couldn’t give the boy everything he needed, though, much as he might want to. It was just as he’d insisted to Albus, over and over; he was not guardian material. Certainly he could learn, as all new parents did, by that great teacher Experience. But to start out at such a deficiency….

 

And he was not known for his temperament. So far he’d been able to rein himself in, but what would happen when something pushed him over the edge? When he was tired and prickly and more prone to venting his spleen than usual? He’d brought children to tears on his bad days, by Merlin. Children he only saw for hours each week. What psychological damage could he do to a boy under his constant care?

 

Not to mention James Potter’s son. Oh, he could see Lily in those eyes now, but once the boy grew? Once he donned his Hogwarts robes, Gryffindor crest and all, and became a true miniature James? What then?

 

Severus sighed and turned to his latest project, another variation on the potent healing draught he’d been developing. Lose himself in his work, that was what he would do. He had time still. He would continue to contemplate the matter, weigh the pros and cons of taking Potter on, explore the limitations of his own conscience. Grapple a bit longer with the latest impossible task that the headmaster had dumped in his lap.

 

Sighing to himself, Severus reached for the jar of giant’s toenails, tipped a modest amount into his mortar and pestle, and began grinding away.

 

XXXXX

 

Harry cast another furtive glance back at the door that led to the laboratory. The Professor _had_ told him to read, hadn’t he? And he hadn’t forbidden anything on this particular shelf.

 

So why did it feel so wrong to be holding this book in his hands? Surely not because he was doing anything wrong….

 

Still, Harry couldn’t help but continue to shoot nervous glances back at the laboratory door every few minutes, even as he continued to smooth his hand over the cover of the book he’d found. _Le lys dans la vallée_ , by Balzac. Whatever all that meant. Initially it had caught his eye because it was the only book on the shelf that didn’t seem to be on wizarding subjects. He’d planned to go back to _Hogwarts, a History_ , but this slender green volume had caught his eye, despite the fact that the words were entirely nonsensical.

 

It had to have been Fate, though, because there, penned neatly on the inside cover in elegant, looping script, was a note.

 

_Sev,_

_Here’s a little something to help you practice your French. It’s one of my favorites. It will probably be too sweet and flowery for you, but I hope that you will try to wade through it anyway. (Maybe I just like it because “Lily” is in the title!)_

_I hope your summer is starting out better than the last. Please remember that Mum and Dad said that you could come over any time. They’re quite fond of you._

_One more benefit of you learning French with me: Tuney won’t be able to understand a word we say! Yes, she finally dropped lessons. (I know what you’ll say, Sev: “not a moment too soon, she had neither the wit nor the talent for it.” I have you pegged!). And yes, you don’t have to remind me that there are spells for that (remember, some of us get letters from the Ministry the second we even consider doing a little harmless Scourgify)._

_Anyway, all this to say that I hope to see you soon._

_Love always,_

_Lily_

 

Harry didn’t care so much about the meaning of the letter. It could have been a shopping list for all it mattered to him. Because here was something real, something tangible, that his mother had written. He traced the swoops of her cursive reverently, mouthing the words to himself, trying to imagine her saying these things aloud.

 

He tried to conjure up that voice from his nightmare—because that had to have come from somewhere, right? He hadn’t just made up a voice for his mother. His little infant brain had probably captured it and stored it away deep in his memory.

 

The letters were so beautiful. They had to have been made with a quill. And his mum must have been very good at it, too, because there wasn’t a single ugly blot in the letter. No, it was all smooth and practiced, the lines thin and elegant like undulating ribbons. Not like Harry’s butchered chicken scratch.

 

He wondered what her hands had looked like. Were they long and elegant? Aunt Petunia’s fingers were long, but not in an elegant way. They were bony, almost skeletal, fit for vicious pinches and little else. Harry had learned early on that it was best not to ask anything about his parents (well, especially his father, but his mother too). It sent Petunia right into a fury and usually resulted in several long days spent in the cupboard with meager meals.

 

But Harry had learned, too, that just because he couldn’t ask about his parents didn’t mean that he couldn’t _imagine_ about them. As long as he was in his cupboard, he was free to daydream about whatever he liked. So he’d spent long hours trying to recreate his parents from his non-existent memory. His dad, he figured, probably looked something like him. Dark hair, light skin. Maybe his mum too, though Aunt Petunia’s hair was very light. Sometimes he imagined his mum looked a lot like his Aunt Petunia, only much prettier. And her face wouldn’t be all pinched, like she’d eaten a lemon or swallowed a bug. It would be a lot softer, and she’d have little crinkles at her eyes from smiling all the time.

 

Sometimes Harry would close his eyes in his little cupboard and imagine being home—his real home, not his aunt and uncle’s house. It was a small little house, but cozy, and it always smelled warm, like cinnamon. And there was no loud, blaring telly, and no big, stupid lawn that had to be weed-free and mulched and watered. In the evenings they would all dine at the table together, and Harry’s mum would serve him and fuss that he wasn’t eating enough, because he was a growing boy and needed to eat all he could. And Harry wouldn’t make faces at her like Dudley did at Aunt Petunia, and he wouldn’t complain that he wanted his pudding before finishing his dinner. No, Harry would smile and nod at his mum and eat up, and his dad would pat him on the back affectionately and beam at him too.

 

And then, after they’d finished washing the dishes together (in his dreams, his mum and dad were very playful and flicked suds and water at each other, so the washing up was more a game) they’d all settle down together on the couch, and maybe there would be a big fire. And Harry would curl up between his mum and dad, and they would just _talk_. Or listen to some nice music on the radio maybe.

 

But seeing this letter his mum had written the Professor was so much better than imagining. It was stupid, but Harry felt like crying out of joy. His mum had been learning French. And she’d read this book and liked it. Maybe Harry could learn French too someday, and he could read this, and then he’d know if he liked the kinds of books his mum liked.

 

He was reading the letter over for what had to be the twenty-third time when the sound of a clearing throat dragged him back to reality.

 

“Ahem.”

 

Harry spun around on his knees, heart thudding, clutching the book to his chest, only to find the Professor leaning against the wall just before the hallway, arms folded over his chest, one brow arched questioningly.

 

“I did not know that you were bilingual, Mr. Potter.”

 

Heat prickled over Harry’s face. He ducked his head down automatically. “What’s ‘bilingual’?”

 

“Able to speak two languages.” The Professor swept forward, his hard black eyes pinning Harry like a collector’s needle though a butterfly. “In this case, French and English. You are fluent in French?”

 

Harry swallowed hard and shook his head to the ground.

 

A sigh. “Verbal answers, Potter. Must I beat it into you?”

 

Harry flinched, but squared his shoulders immediately. He could take a beating, he thought. Sure, he’d only ever dealt with Dudley pummeling him, and the Professor was a lot bigger and a lot stronger than Dudley. But his uncle had clouted him on the head, too, and that had to count for something—

 

“Figuratively speaking, boy!” the Professor snapped, the irritation in his voice notching up considerably. “I have given you repeated assurances that I will not raise a hand to you, and yet it does not seem to be sinking in. So perhaps more lines are in order, a hundred repetitions of, ‘I will answer verbally at all times’ as well as, ‘Professor Snape is neither a sadist nor a child abuser, and as such he will not allow me to come to physical harm’. Perhaps that will finally force it into your thick skull.”

 

Harry didn’t know what a sadist was, but he figured it was a fancy way for the Professor to say that he really, _really_ wasn’t going to hurt Harry, just give him chores and lines and all when he misbehaved. “Sorry, sir,” he mumbled. He felt bad that he’d flinched and cowered again, but it wasn’t like he was thinking about these things. He just sort of reacted, that was all.

 

Another, heavier sigh. “Back to my original question. Do you understand French?”

 

Harry swallowed past the lump forming in his throat. “No, sir.”

 

“Mm. And did I or did I not instruct you to read for the duration of the afternoon?”

 

“You did, sir.”

 

“So how is it, Potter, that you are following my instructions when you cannot _read_ the book that you have chosen?”

 

Harry’s hands tightened instinctively around the book’s cover. “I—I just wanted to look at it, sir. And then… then I saw the inside cover, and….” Harry bit his lip, hesitating.

 

He’d been snooping. He knew that for sure now. Even if he’d pushed that niggling thought away at first, it was painfully apparent now that he’d been caught red-handed. And he knew how snoops were dealt with—or at least, how his aunt and uncle would deal with him. Because sneaking and spying and stealing were awful things to do, and he had no right to go nosing about in other peoples’ things.

 

Even if his mother had written it.

 

Harry gathered up what little courage he had and, holding that strength close to his chest, managed to choke out, “I’m sorry, sir, I shouldn’t have looked. It was really bad of me and—“

 

“Potter.” A third sigh, this time filling every syllable of his name. And before Harry knew what was going on, the Professor had hauled him to his feet by his upper arm and pushed him back to sit on the loveseat. “Eyes up here.”

 

Reluctantly, Harry dragged his gaze up.

 

Strangely enough, the Professor did not look angry. If anything, he looked exasperated. Wordlessly, the man held his hand out, and Harry deposited the book into his outstretched hand without hesitation. “Your mother gave this to me the summer before our fourth year at Hogwarts.”

 

Harry blinked uncomprehendingly at the man. Wasn’t he going to yell? Or at least assign a new punishment?

 

“The title translates to, ‘The Lily in the Valley’. Your mother was right; it wasn’t to my tastes. It was a long-winded romance wrapped in a social commentary, and I had no patience for such things. But I never told her that, of course, because I was afraid she would take it the wrong way. I hated every chapter of it, but I trudged my way through anyway, dictionary in hand, just so I could discuss the inanities of the whole thing with her.”

 

Harry stayed quiet, practically holding his breath. This was just like earlier, he realized. The man was lost again in another time, deep in the flow of those memories, and if he spoke too loudly or demanded too much, the spell would break and he wouldn’t get to hear another word about his mother.

 

“I’d forgotten it was out here,” the Professor continued musingly, speaking more to himself now. He turned the book over in his hands, his fingers brushing over the binding and the cover in near reverence. “Your mother joked that I should sympathize more with the story’s hero. Said that I, of all people, should be able to understand him, Slytherin that he was. Félix was ambitious enough, certainly, but he was also a self-important nitwit hiding his base desires behind a façade of pretty words and convoluted philosophical ramblings.”

 

Harry tried not to stare too blankly, lest he remind the Professor who he was speaking to. If the Professor remembered that Harry was there, and that he would have to explain every complicated little thing, he would probably clam right up and set Harry a thousand or so lines instead, just as he’d threatened.

 

The Professor blinked and seemed to come back to himself anyway, his eyes flickering down to Harry. “What I mean to say,” he said slowly, carefully, as if tasting each word on his tongue, “is that your mother found the hero noble and romantic, and I found him pathetic and self-serving. But your mother did always have a brighter outlook on things than I did.”

 

Harry’s lips trembled as he tried to hold back his questions. There were so many he longed to ask, so many things he was dying to know about his mother, and here was someone who could answer them all. But if he pushed he would spoil it, he just knew.

 

“Ask.”

 

Startled, Harry looked up, meeting the Professor’s dark, intent gaze. “Sir?” he breathed.

 

“Ask your question, before it burns a hole in your tongue.”

 

“What did my mum’s voice sound like?” Harry blurted out before he could think better of it.

 

The Professor tilted his head slightly, his lids drifting half-shut. “Her voice.” _His_ voice was instantly rougher, faintly scratchy and strained. “How to describe her voice.”

 

Harry swallowed thickly. “It’s okay, sir, if you can’t…. I imagine it’s a hard thing to describe.”

 

“It is.”

 

Harry tried to be patient as the Professor lapsed back into silence, his hands continuing to turn _Le lys dans la Vallée_ over absently. He dearly hoped that the Professor would at least _try_ , even if it wasn’t perfect. Harry could live with that. He just wanted to know _something_ , to have some details to go on, so he could use his imagination to fill in the blanks.

 

Just when Harry was afraid the Professor would say no more, the man spoke again. “It would be much easier to show you.” The Professor crooked a finger at him and, without another word, turned down the hall, toward his own rooms.

 

After a moment of stunned disbelief and another of hesitation, Harry followed, wondering what the man could possibly mean about showing him.

 

The Professor led Harry into a room that reminded Harry very much of Uncle Vernon’s study, only this room was slightly cluttered and in disarray, and looked far more scholarly than his Uncle’s ever could. Shelves ringed the walls, stuffed full of books, most of them old, many of them in languages that Harry didn’t recognize. The large, dark-wooded desk had its surface entirely covered by stacks of parchment, books laden with bookmarks, a few inkwells, a smattering of quills. One leather-bound notebook took up the center, splayed open and filled with cramped script that Harry could barely make out. _Week Twelve, Properties of Common Herbs_ …. Potions, perhaps? Maybe the man’s lesson plans?

 

Harry’s contemplation of the notebook was thoroughly interrupted when the Professor swept an arm over the desk, shoving parchment and such aside, clearing a space for the heavy stone basin he withdrew from beneath the desk.  Strange as the basin itself was, even stranger was the ethereal liquid pooled inside. It emanated a soft, silver-blue glow. The contents swirled, folding over each other like clouds of mist, undulating, rising and sinking.

 

"A Pensieve,” the Professor informed him by way of explanation. “A storage device for thoughts, and also a viewing plane for them….” The Professor hesitated.

 

Harry’s breath caught. A viewing plane for… memories? Did that mean…?  


“I can show you a memory of your mother, if you wish.” The Professor sounded rather reluctant, and that alone was enough to tighten Harry’s stomach and twist it uncomfortably.

 

But the man had offered. And that was enough. “Please, sir,” Harry begged, his words faint. He could scarcely believe this. He might _see_ his mother, might _hear_ her even. It was too much for him to take in.

 

The Professor dipped his head and, sliding his wand from his sleeve, touched the tip of the dark wood to his temple. The man closed his eyes lightly and, after a pause of a few seconds, drew the tip back, dragging with it a vibrant silver strand. A memory. He dropped it carefully into the basin. Then he beckoned Harry forward with a quick wave of his hand.

 

Harry stumbled forward, his whole body thrumming with excitement. Too, there was buried a touch of trepidation, because he had no idea how difficult it would be to view the memory, and what if his magic wasn’t good enough to let him? Worries stirred like restless birds behind his excitement.

 

“We’ll go together,” the Professor announced once Harry was at his side. And the man took a firm hold of Harry’s forearm. “Dip your head in. It will be a bit disorienting, but it will not hurt….”

 

Harry drew in a bracing breath and, without another second of hesitation, mimicked the Professor, lowering his face into the basin as if he were about to perform his ablutions.

 

The sense of falling was not nearly as frightening as it should have been. Especially not with the Professor’s steady, reassuring grip on his arm. They tumbled through the pulsating mists, passing by snatches of things—a disembodied laugh, a twist of robes, a breeze playing through the leaves of a tree. The sensation was exhilarating. Harry barely contained a triumphant laugh. Was this what it felt like to fly?

 

They landed softly in a swath of grass, beside a large oak whose leaves were starting to turn. Beneath it, stretched out side by side in the shade, were a red-headed girl and a dark-haired boy. His mum and the Professor, both looking to be several years older than Harry.

 

“Mum!” Harry cried.

 

The elder Professor’s hand tightened around his arm. “She can’t hear you, Potter. It’s a memory, nothing more.”

 

Harry swallowed thickly and nodded his understanding. “Where are you?”

 

The Professor jerked his head back behind him in answer. Harry turned and saw two things, an expanse of lake and, settled above that up on the cliffs, a large, many-turreted castle.

 

Harry gasped. “Hogwarts!”

 

“Indeed,” the Professor agreed mildly.

 

“Hm, okay, how about… the Cat’s Grace Potion?”

 

Harry turned back so fast that he was certain he’d torqued a muscle in his neck. His mother, asking Snape a question. And how beautiful that voice was. Soft and gentle, but not fragile. It was clear and sweet, imbued with a subtle strength. Harry thought that he could listen to it for hours without tiring.

 

“Kneazle fur, ground harpy eggshell, and shaved stag antlers for the base, with lady’s slipper blossoms and willow bark infused during the process.” The young Professor recited the recipe effortlessly, a slightly arrogant smirk tugging at his lips. “Do you give up yet?”

 

Lily grinned easily at him and slammed the book closed. “Yes, I suppose I have to,” she conceded. “Honestly, Sev, didn’t you have better things to do over the summer than memorize your textbooks?”

 

Harry noted the way the younger Professor’s smile faltered slightly. But he recovered quickly. “Well, I do take my studies seriously, unlike some—“

 

Lily smacked his arm lightly. “Don’t be mean.”

 

The Professor’s smirk turned into an impish grin. “Very well. Not to you. Others, though….”

 

“I’m not asking for a miracle, Sev. Though it wouldn’t kill you to make an effort.”

 

The younger Professor snorted. “Ah, but it might, and then who would you partner in Potions?”

 

Lily laughed, and the scene began to dissolve before their eyes, breaking back apart into mists that chased each other round and round. And Harry felt himself floating up again, up and out, bursting through the skies….

 

Harry blinked dazedly as he pulled his head out of the Pensieve. His mother’s laugh lingered in his ears like the pealing of some high, clear bell, striking deep into his core and touching at something. He felt… content. Short as the memory had been, it was good to know now that he _had_ heard his mother’s voice, that he had more than a mere figment of his desperate imagination.

 

And it was thanks to the Professor’s generosity.

 

“Thank you, sir,” Harry uttered, lifting his eyes to meet the Professor’s impassive black gaze. And then he impulsively dashed forward, circled his arms around the man’s waist, and squeezed him in a fierce hug.

 

The Professor went stiff as a steel girder beneath him, and made no move to reciprocate. And then it occurred to Harry that he might have made a grave mistake. Perhaps the man didn’t want to be touched by the likes of him…. Harry hastily stepped back, head down, cheeks heated in a very obvious blush.

 

“S-sorry,” he stammered, “I shouldn’t have… I just….”

 

The Professor cleared his throat. “No, it’s… it’s fine. I… it was not unpleasant.”

 

Harry winced and shriveled back a little further. He’d made the man uncomfortable, if not angry, and now the awkward tension in the room was thick enough to choke. Stupid, stupid, stupid….

 

“Back to your reading,” the Professor announced suddenly. “That was enough of a diversion for now. In fact, let us think up an appropriate assignment for the remaining time before dinner, so that you are not tempted to fritter the evening away.”

 

And without further ado, the man led Harry back to the sitting room, seated him back on the loveseat, and informed him that he was expected to read a chapter of _Hogwarts, a History_ before their evening meal, and to expect to be quizzed on it. And with those instructions, as well as a stern reminder to come fetch him should the pain or tremors start again, the Professor retreated back into his lab.

 

Harry sighed to himself as he tried to settle back into his reading. Seeing that memory had been so very _wonderful_ , and yet he couldn’t help but feel a dark disappointment tugging at his heart. He wouldn’t be allowed to stay. He only had a scant few days left with the Professor, before he would be sent off to his new family. And they probably wouldn’t have ever known his mother, not the way the Professor had.

 

Well, he would just continue to do his very best to be very, very good, and hopefully impress the Professor somehow, enough that the man would decide to keep him after all. No more stupid stunts that would make the man angry. Harry would just ask directly, and often, what kind of chores and work he could do, and then the Professor would see how good and kind and helpful he was. And he would have to show the Professor that he was smart, too, because Harry doubted the man would want to open his home to a boy he found dull.

 

Harry threw himself into his book, paying extra close attention to all the hard words, sounding them out, trying to figure out what they could mean. He wouldn’t muddle this up, he promised himself. Not again.

 


	13. Unconditionally

 

 

The cauldrons were the last of the boy’s punishment. Severus could hardly justify anything worse, given the boy’s remorse and obedience. That, and the return of the tremors that evening, just before their dinner, reminded him that the boy had already been punished most cruelly by Bellatrix. At least the tremors were not as violent or as noticeable as before, but it was awful still to see the limbs of one so young shake like that.

 

Three cauldrons only, too. A token punishment, really, and one that still settled uneasily in Severus’ stomach. He tried to make up for it later that night, just before bed. He transfigured the loveseat once more, recreated the glowing orb of light, settled a glass of water down on the coffee table, and gave the boy his potions. No Dreamless Sleep, though he longed to offer Potter that relief. But it was unwise, of course. The return of the pain and tremors would likely come in the early hours of the morning, meaning the boy would have to wake, and best if he do so from a lighter slumber, not the heavy, deep darkness of a sleeping draught.

 

He gave the boy something light though, a sleep aid, in his evening tea. Something to help him drift off.

 

And then he forced himself to do one more kindness for his ward—though it was not very difficult, considering the child’s reaction to all the other tidbits he’d shared about Lily. And after the memory… he could still feel the tight pressure of those arms around his midriff, fierce with gratitude.

 

Funny to think that, not so very long ago, he would have shuddered at the thought of any child embracing him. Oh, certainly there had been First Years who’d looked as though they longed to do so, who had gazed forlornly at their Head of House as if his cold exterior might suddenly melt, revealing paternal tenderness and fondness. No such luck, of course, not for them.

 

But the boy was different somehow. Severus had understood the magnitude of the gift he'd given Potter, a glimpse of a mother he would never know, a snapshot of her brilliance and kindness, and the sweet sound of her laughter. It was only natural that the child should have an extreme reaction.

 

And too, Potter had recognized the liberty he’d taken with his temporary guardian. He’d been shy, apologetic, concerned that he’d overstepped a boundary. Not like the annoying twits he taught who, Severus was certain, thought themselves entitled to his affection. No such entitlement from the boy, unsurprisingly.

 

Oh, yes, Severus had been a touch uncomfortable with the embrace. He’d neglected to respond in kind. He was not a demonstrative man, not a “hugger”, as his colleagues might say, and so it was only natural that he not reciprocate the impromptu gesture.

 

That did not mean, though, that he had been entirely unmoved. The impression of Lily lingered in his mind—how could it not?—even as he began to see the boy in another light. So quiet, so reserved, so… unassuming, in every possible sense of the word. Merlin’s sake, Potter had thought that Severus had rescued him from Bellatrix only to throw him immediately out of doors! Or to ship him off with Albus, at the very least.

 

The boy had worked his fingers to the bone that afternoon, first pulling weeds, then cramming his head full of knowledge. Potter had practically recited the chapter he’d been assigned when Severus had quizzed him on it, a note of panic hitching in his voice whenever he stumbled over information or failed to recall some useless tidbit.

 

And then the cauldrons. Severus had had to use a minor healing charm to close up the abrasions on the boy’s fingers, since he’d applied himself so thoroughly to his task that he’d literally worked his hands raw. Severus had tsked lightly at that, and admonished the boy to take better care of himself, hoping to discourage such unreasonable zeal in the future.

 

And the boy had deflated at that, as if instead Severus had thoroughly berated him about his stupidity and worthlessness. He’d meekly apologized, and mumbled something about leaving blood in the cauldrons.

 

Severus had nearly lost it then. Thankfully he’d managed to get a firm grip on his temper and, rather than take out his fury on his blameless ward when it should be reserved for the boy’s wretched Muggle relatives, Severus had merely reiterated his words about there being no point in scrubbing to the point of breaking skin.

 

He’d tried his best to be gentler with the boy after that. After all, it was clear to him that Potter was willing to throw himself with utter abandon into any task assigned. Likely, Severus realized, because the boy was hopelessly starved for approval.

 

Well, Severus would not—could not—coddle him. But he could be mindful of how he treated his charge.

 

Starting with meeting his basic needs. That night he’d dug up a few boxes of clothing that had been packed away in the attic and shrunk a good number of outfits down to fit his charge. The clothing was worn, most of it rather plain and overly formal, as per his usual style, holdovers from his early twenties. But it was still infinitely better than the tattered monstrosities the boy had been forced to wear up until then. He’d yet to mention to Potter that he’d incinerated all the remaining castoffs from his relatives, save his undergarments. That would have to be remedied at a later date.

 

And now, Severus sighed, he would offer the boy a bedtime story of sorts. What was the world coming to? Severus Snape, sitting down to send James Potter’s son off to dreamland with a fond memory of the boy’s mother?

 

Well. He was doing this for Lily. Surely this sentimentality could not be such a terrible thing. For Lily, and maybe, just maybe, a bit for the boy himself.

 

“Comfortable enough, Mr. Potter?” he inquired a bit gruffly, staring down at the boy.

 

 Teeth brushed, hair combed (or, rather, an attempt was made at combing), bundled into pajamas, and his glasses already folded neatly on the coffee table. Those green eyes stared back at him, uncertain, apprehensive, tinged with gratitude and admiration (likely only because Severus had informed the little miscreant that his punishment had been sufficient). “Yes, sir,” he said shyly, his eyes dropping down to where his hands twisted in his blanket.

 

Severus sighed. Well, he’d already decided to do this, he thought. No use in backing out now. He reached a hand into the pocket of his own dressing gown and withdrew the item he’d stashed there. It was just a duplicate, he reminded himself. This was a small gesture. A token, really. Albus should have thought to have sent the boy something like this ages ago.

 

“I have something for you.”

 

The boy perked up instantly, eyes wide, shining with focus. Severus noted the way the child’s hands clenched more tightly, and he wondered if it was fear, anticipation, or a mixture of the both. Though he hoped it was anticipation only. Really, he’d treated the boy well, hadn’t he? Severus had given the boy no cause to be frightened of him. In fact, he’d worked rather hard to reassure the boy that no harm would come to him under this roof, hadn’t he?

 

Severus pushed the notion aside and instead carefully extended the photograph to the boy. “A Muggle photograph, I’m afraid,” he murmured, watching carefully as the boy lifted his hands to accept the gift.

 

Potter accepted it like a nervous altar boy accepting the bones of the Virgin Mary herself. He did not snatch it by the edges; rather, he held it aloft between two hands, pressing the stiff edges of the photo into the flesh of his palms, so that no part of his hands touched either side of the photo. He stared at the image, transfixed, a small, jubilant smile forming over his lips.

 

It was one of Severus’ many photos of Lily, but one of his favorites. Taken at the end of their fourth year, early in the summer—just days after they’d both stepped off of the Hogwarts express, in fact. Lily had been tending to the gardens in the back of her house, using (as she was wont to do) just the barest touches of natural wandless magic to encourage the blooms in the flower garden. That afternoon, however, she’d gotten a touch carried away. Her parents had been delighted, of course, to see the garden overflowing, each plant full of lovely blossoms. Thankfully there had been no ominous letter from the Ministry, so the magic she’d exercised must have still been a low enough amount to evade detection.

 

Her parents, enthralled with their gifted daughter, had insisted she gather a bouquet to showcase her fine work. And she had. And they had memorialized the moment in photography, so here she stood, awash in the sepia tones of 70s era photography, her arms full of multi-colored blooms of every stripe, green eyes shining and lips stretched in a triumphant grin. She’d sent him a copy that summer, tucked into one of their habitual letters. Her caption was on the back still, in her looped, elegant script. “A Lily amongst the roses.” And Severus had quipped back in his reply, “And still fairer than them all by far.”

 

Such lines had never seemed quite as insipid when traded with Lily.

 

Severus sighed and summoned an armchair over. He sank into it, still studying his charge. The boy had eyes only for that photograph, and wide eyes they were. Severus wondered if the boy would even blink, fixated as he was.

 

“Your mother was a very gifted witch,” he began calmly, allowing himself to be pulled by the stirrings of remembrance. He rarely spoke of Lily, mostly because his memories of her were so bittersweet, such a reminder of all he’d lost and all he’d wrought. Recounting them aloud only seemed to make it worse. But if he allowed himself to fall into the past…. Well, that seemed to mute the effects well enough.

 

He could feel the boy’s rapt attention, the way his posture straightened further, the way the air suddenly stilled in the boy’s lungs, as if breathing would be enough to offend Severus and cause him to stop. Starved for affection, starved for approval, starved for knowledge…. Internally, he shook his head to himself. They should have taken the boy away much sooner. Perhaps never left him in that wretched home in the first place.

 

“A very gifted witch,” he continued, closing his eyes lightly and conjuring memories of that summer. It had started out slightly cool, and down the way from Spinner’s End, in the Evans’ neighborhood, everything had smelt of freshly-mown grass and sunshine. “She was particularly adept at Charms….”

 

And Potter stared on, drinking in Severus’ every word.

 

XXXXX

 

Friday came, and Severus was resolved. Mostly. He’d yet to even broach the topic with his erstwhile ward.

 

The past few days had passed peaceably enough. Severus was finding that Potter’s company was more and more tolerable, though the boy still seemed unnaturally jumpy. They spent most of their days in relative proximity to each other; Severus found that he was uneasy at the prospect of being too far from his ward. So while Severus worked in his study, he left the door open so that he could keep his ears open for sounds coming from the parlor, where he’d left the boy to read a chapter or two.

 

They prepared meals together. Potter turned out to be quite adept in the kitchen for a boy his age, particularly with prep work. As soon as it became apparent that the boy knew how to handle a paring knife, Severus left him to do most of the peeling and scrubbing of the vegetables, while he handled the more difficult and delicate tasks. Trussing up their roast, butterflying a chicken, deboning fish filets. He found too that he was more apt to prepare elaborate (or, elaborate enough) meals now that he had another mouth to feed. Potter’s eagerness and engagement even made the task somewhat enjoyable. Not that he would ever admit to such a thing.

 

It helped that the boy didn’t complain. Ever. He did as he was told, and he took special care in following instructions. He worked diligently. When he wasn’t certain about something, he asked—hesitantly, his voice trembling, as if expecting a rebuke, but at least he could approach Severus. And he was relaxing more with each passing day.

 

Too, he applied himself to his studies. Severus made a point for the rest of the week to quiz the boy about his reading, mostly to verify that Potter had actually completed the task assigned to him. He had decided that no further punishments were necessary, true, but he hadn’t been too apt about allowing the boy back his playthings, particularly that box of quarrelsome enchanted soldiers who’d led him astray and into danger in the first place.

 

He did eventually concede to outdoor time the second day, though he reminded the boy sternly beforehand to stay far away from his herb garden. Potter had agreed readily.

  
Perhaps the greatest factor in his decision was the increasing time they spent each evening remembering Lily. He still had Potter sleep on the transfigured loveseat, though the aftereffects of the Cruciatus had all but subsided. It was a precaution, especially since he was certain that Potter was now vulnerable to particularly nasty and vivid nightmares, thanks to his traumatic experience.

 

Severus had fallen into the habit of recounting stories and memories just before Potter went to sleep. He told himself it was to help the boy concentrate on pleasant thoughts and to ward against such nightmares, which had begun to dwindle in number and intensity since he’d started this practice. He firmly told himself that it was not because he enjoyed the habit. Much, at least. And even that was mostly because Potter listened respectfully enough, and asked few questions. Likely because he feared that badgering Severus for details would put an end to their little story time.

 

All in all, their coexistence—no, not coexistence, his _guardianship_ —was turning out much smoother than expected. More than that, he found that something about it seemed almost natural (perish the thought). Potter had long since ceased to be an intruder and become a natural part of his daily rhythms.

 

And if Severus could be honest with himself, it was gratifying beyond belief to care for a dependent. To see the vestiges of trust forming in those emerald eyes, to see the worshipful awe etched in the boy’s expression when he watched Severus work, or perform mundane household magic. To feel the sheer intensity of the boy’s attention any time Severus deigned to answer a question or recount a memory of Lily.

 

Severus leaned back in his high-backed desk chair and ran an exasperated hand through his hair. Merlin, what was he getting himself into? This, what he planned to say to Albus, it went far beyond his initial grudging offer to extend Potter’s stay under his roof. No, he’d sunken further into madness than that. He was up to his ears in it now, to be considering proposing such a thing.

 

Albus had said there was a way. And impossible as it had seemed, Severus had long ago learned that he could occasionally expect miracles from the wily headmaster. How the elder wizard planned to smooth this all over he had no clue, but he was certain it could and would be done, else Albus never would have brought up the possibility.

 

Merlin. To propose _keeping_ the boy. Not on a provisional basis, not just until Albus made other arrangements. Admitting that he would like to do as much to the headmaster, after so adamantly refusing for so very long…. Yes, he had never liked the taste of crow. But needs must, he told himself. And more and more he caught himself thinking about what life would be like with that emerald-eyed little boy in it, infesting his home, trailing after him like a puppy, inundating Severus with a ceaseless flood of questions concerning magic and Hogwarts and _Lily_ …. It would not be such a terrible thing.

 

Perhaps it was selfish and wrong, to want to secret away this last piece of Lily all for himself. To nurse that feeble connection to her, to assuage his own guilty conscience by providing for the very son he’d all but condemned to die all those years ago. Even to have this final, twisted victory over James, knowing that he, Severus Snape, would be the one to shield Potter’s boy from the world, that Severus would be the one to teach him and guide him, that Severus would be the recipient of those fierce embraces of gratitude.

 

Terrible reasons, he scolded himself, to take in an orphaned child with a prophecy hanging heavily over his head. Terrible, selfish reasons.

 

But those were not the only things driving him to this course of action. Because he knew, beneath everything, that he was doing this for Potter alone. For that lost boy who’d tried to make amends by cooking breakfast. For the black-headed child who would smile timidly and blurt out questions, and never expect answers, only hope for them fiercely. For the boy who, even broken by Bellatrix’s cruelty, had pulled enough courage from some reserve to turn right around and pelt the mad woman with stones. Yes, for that stupid, reckless, irritatingly endearing child, Severus would do just about anything.

 

Another thing he would never admit to anyone. Not even fully to himself.

 

But it was undeniable. A part of him wanted to follow this course for Potter’s sake alone.

 

The Floo flared to life unexpectedly, and Albus Dumbledore’s grave face appeared there, his eyes piercing over his half-moon spectacles.

 

“Severus, might I step through?”

 

Severus knelt down to bring his own face into view. “Headmaster. Of course, I’d just planned to contact you.” He fought to keep his frustration from his tone. Had the man truly believed that Severus had forgotten his promise? “I _had_ intended to contact you today. I was just about to, in fact. But do come through—“

 

Albus needed no further prompting than that. He dusted the soot briskly from his cobalt robes—a rather subdued style today, Severus thought. “I am certain you did, Severus,” the headmaster murmured, pacing over to one of the bookshelves that lined Severus’ study. “That is not the reason I came to call—directly, at least. The Ministry has moved Harry’s custody hearing to this evening. It seems that Lucius has expedited things, which means, unfortunately, that we shall have very little time to devise a plan.”

 

Severus swallowed thickly. Of course. Of course _Lucius bloody Malfoy_ would not simply sit back on his heels and wait for Dumbledore to out-plot and out-maneuver him. He would pull every string he could to ensure that the hearing went in his favor.

 

“Given your… hesitation,” Dumbledore continued, and hand rising to stroke and tug at his beard, “I cannot help but think that our only choice is to present the Dursleys as the proper choice for the time being, and argue that Harry’s need for the blood wards is so dire that it would be irresponsible to allow him to go to another.”

 

Severus felt as if his veins had turned to stone. “Lucius will bat that argument aside. He will point to his home as absolutely secure, and he would not be exaggerating much. You know as well as I how potent many of the ancient wards and protective spells there are, not to mention the Darker enchantments at work securing his home and property. And the Minister will side with him confidently, because as long as Potter comes to no harm—“

 

“Yes, yes, Cornelius will look competent, and maintain his favor with a key political ally. I am aware, Severus, but I can think of little else at the moment. We may have to accept that we cannot win this round, and instead plan for what we can do at a later date to correct this. I’ve no doubt that Lucius will treat Harry well, however… unsavory… other aspects of his guardianship might be—“

 

“And what would you have done,” Severus interrupted impatiently, fighting down his irritation once more—a stronger surge this time—“had I intended to take Potter on in a permanent capacity? You assured me that you had a plan in place for such an eventuality. Is it no longer viable?”

 

Albus gave his beard a particularly hard tug as his eyebrows drew together in consternation. “Severus, my boy, I know I have been pressing you to consider taking Harry on, but I never intended for the decision to be made in response to a crisis. You should not feel obligated to take Harry on merely to spare him from Lucius. I admit, the situation is not ideal, but all is not lost—“

 

“Albus,” Severus growled impatiently, “I had decided to have the boy stay before you arrived with this news. You assured me that you had a plan for such a thing, as I doubt striding into the Ministry and announcing that I wish to take custody of the boy will do the least bit of good. Is this plan of yours still viable?”

 

Albus stared at Severus hard for a long moment, his blue eyes intent. And then the headmaster smiled a smile that spread at a maddeningly languid pace. “Truly, Severus? You truly have decided to take charge of Harry?”

 

“Yes,” Severus snapped, scowling. “And it seems to me that we have little time to waste on you preening or gloating, so I beg you, tell me what we might possibly do.”

 

“Why, this is splendid,” the headmaster mused, still smiling brightly. “Marvelous, simply marvelous. Have you told the boy? No, of course not, you would wish to arrange things with me first. Ah, this will be complicated. Hm, but doable, I should think. Have you explained anything of our difficult position to Harry?”

 

Severus grit his teeth. He could already tell where this was going. He knew his employer far too well. “Very little. Albus, _what_ will be complicated? How do you plan to surmount the fact that I am an ex-Death Eater with no claim, blood or otherwise, on the boy?”

 

Albus waved Severus’ concerns away with a lazy gesture of one wrinkled hand, just as Severus knew he would. “I’ve determined a way, my boy, never to worry. It will take a few owls, I believe, but we should be capable of pulling things together before the hearing this evening. I will take my leave, then, to see to a few tedious details. In the meantime, perhaps you could explain the situation to young Harry, and let him know of your willingness to let him stay?”

 

Severus’ hands were balled into such tight fists that he could feel his short nails digging into his palms. Typical, he thought, for Dumbledore to revel in ambiguity and hints without revealing so much as a scrap of his master designs. For all Severus knew, Dumbledore could be expecting him to run around for the next decade polyjuiced as the boy’s oaf of an uncle. Yes, Severus was amongst the lesser creatures, he knew, unfit to be brought into full confidence. Much better for him to stumble forward blindly until the headmaster finally decided to share his thoughts.

 

No use in complaining, though. It never did any good. “Very well.”

 

Dumbledore beamed. “Excellent! Shall we convene in my office, perhaps for tea this evening? Five, shall we say?”

 

Severus dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Five then.” He even managed to unclench his jaw enough to force the words out naturally.

 

Dumbledore helped himself to a generous fistful of Floo powder from the mantle. “Until later, then,” he bade Severus cheerily, and, thrusting the powder down, called out for his office at Hogwarts.

 

Severus ran an anxious hand through his hair. But Merlin, why could nothing ever be simple? And just how did Dumbledore expect him to make light of this situation to a child? A young child, no less, though a bright enough one, if Severus was being honest. Thankfully the boy seemed to have inherited his mother’s precociousness.

 

Well, needs must, he told himself. He automatically touched a hand to his left forearm. If he was to explain this, he would give young Potter the full story. The boy needed to know if this arrangement were to become permanent. The boy deserved that much.

 

XXXXX

 

Harry fidgeted nervously on the sofa. The Professor was pacing the length of the parlor, his body strangely tense. Harry didn’t like seeing that, not one bit. He knew now that the Professor would never hurt him, but the few times his aunt and uncle had looked like that—once after receiving a phone call about Dudley, who’d broken another boy’s nose at primary, and once when Uncle Vernon had received a call informing him that his sister Marge had gone into the hospital with a heart problem—that nervous, tense mood had broken into a tempest later, and Harry had borne the brunt of the storm. It was only too natural to fear that the man’s state was foreshadowing something terrible for Harry.

 

He’d been reading quietly, as was his habit these past few days, when the Professor had strode into the room, face grim, announcing that they needed to have a discussion. A very important discussion.

 

Harry figured this was about where he would go now. The Professor’s two weeks were nearly up, he knew. Just a few days left and the strange old Headmaster would be back to whisk him off to another family. Hopefully. Harry knew that the Professor didn’t think that the Headmaster would let him go to an orphanage, but he found it hard to put too much stock in those words.

 

After all, the Professor was just doing his mother a favor. It wasn’t as if he was responsible for Harry’s welfare after this two weeks. He probably just thought that it was best to keep Harry pacified and protect him from any nasty truths. Maybe he just didn’t want Harry to throw a fit, or cry like a baby, when he learned that he was probably headed to an orphanage after all. Or worse, straight back to the Dursleys.

 

And now it was too late to put off the truth much longer. Harry braced himself, vowing that he would get through this without bawling like a little child. He could be brave and strong, and holding himself together was the least he could do, after all the Professor had done for him. He still had the picture the man had given him of his mother tucked carefully away beneath his pillow. At least he would be able to keep that with him. The Professor _had_ said that it was his now….

 

The Professor at last stopped his restless pacing and turned toward the loveseat, his sallow features stretched taut. “Potter….” There was a great deal of hesitation and uncertainty in the man’s voice, as if he didn’t know where to begin.

 

“Should I pack, sir?” Harry offered softly, peering up at the man through his lashes.

 

“What?” The man seemed genuinely startled. “No, why would you—ah. Ah.” Understanding seemed to dawn in the man’s eyes. He sighed heavily and withdrew his wand from his sleeve, and with a cursory flick of his wand he summoned an armchair to himself and sank down into it. “Two weeks. Yes, that was a part of what I wished to discuss.” The Professor twirled his wand idly in his hands, his eyes cast off to the side, not quite meeting Harry’s gaze.

 

Harry swallowed thickly. He didn’t have to pack? What could that mean? He’d tried hard, sure. He’d hoped so desperately to be able to impress the man with his hard work. Never in a million years had he thought that he would actually succeed.

 

He’d learned early on that hard work wasn’t enough. How many times had he pushed just as hard in his chores for his aunt and uncle? How many times had he been so very certain that _this time_ the floor was spotless enough, or the garden was immaculate enough, or breakfast was good enough, for the Dursleys to start to like him, even just a little? And how many times had he been sorely disappointed?

  
But the man was telling him that he wouldn’t have to pack. Unless the Professor merely meant that Harry had nothing _to_ pack, since the Professor had provided everything and thrown out Harry’s old clothing from Dudley. Oh, he hoped the man would at least let him keep one set of clothes. All he had that was really his was a few sets of socks and pants, and even those were worn and disgusting.

 

Maybe the Headmaster would let Harry hide under his robes if it came down to that. Just until he got to a new family who could spare him a shirt and trousers.

 

“Potter, you’ve seemed… comfortable here. Comfortable enough, at least. Is that right?”

 

Harry blinked. Comfortable? Sure he was comfortable. What a stupid question! “Yes, sir. Of course, sir. I—I really like it here.”

 

The Professor nodded to himself, as if expecting this. “And you feel safe here, yes? I give you enough to eat and all? I don’t frighten you too terribly?”

 

Now Harry was really confused. More dumb questions. The Professor knew the answer to those questions. Was he just making sure that Harry knew? That he appreciated things, like his relatives never said that he did? “Yes, sir, and thank you, sir—“

 

The Professor’s eyes flickered to Harry, darkened with irritation. “I am not fishing for compliments, boy! There’s no need to bow and scrape—oh, Merlin. What I am trying, very poorly, to say is that I believe… I believe it might be… acceptable… for you to remain here with me, as things seem to be panning out, and we seem… compatible.” Abruptly, the man stood in agitation and resumed his pacing. “That, and the Headmaster is determined to have his way. And he seems utterly convinced that you will do best left in my care, for some unfathomable reason.” The Professor stopped in his tracks and whipped back to Harry, his black eyes wary. “That is not to say that I—well, that I am not… amenable… to you remaining here. As I said, we appear to be compatible. And you seem content to remain. And if nothing else, this is a far better home for you than what your relatives offered you.”

 

Harry blinked a few more times, trying to make sense of what the Professor was trying to say. He thought that it sounded like the man was telling him that he _could_ stay here after all, but that seemed so unlikely. And besides, if that was what the Professor meant to say, why couldn’t he just say it?

 

“Do you understand?” the Professor inquired.

 

Harry gnawed his lip, afraid to speak. “I… I don’t think I do, sir. You—you’ll let me stay here for a little longer?”

 

The Professor scrubbed a hand over his face, clearly exasperated.

 

“I’m sorry,” Harry apologized quickly, “I was listening, I just—“

 

“No,” the Professor muttered, dragging the hand from his face up through his hair. “I should explain better.” The man drew in a deep breath, then asked, very plainly, “Potter, would you like to remain here with me permanently?”

 

Harry bolted straight up as his whole body swelled with emotion. Disbelief, first, numb and cold, and it seemed to him that something had disconnected his mind and body. And then that began to dissipate, replaced by the bubbling, tingling sensation of pure joy washing through him. He was being offered a home. He might not have to go back to the Dursleys or to an orphanage after all.

 

And he’d meant what he’d said. He really liked it here. Sure, the Professor was quiet and could be snappish, but he was brilliant too. And a real wizard. And he talked to Harry almost as if he were an adult. Yes, the big, confusing words were annoying sometimes, but Harry knew that he was picking up on them slowly, and soon he would sound as smart and polished as the Professor.

 

 Plus, the man had already protected Harry with his own life. He’d dueled that awful witch just to save Harry, and given him medicine, and watched him for nightmares after. Harry still slept in the parlor, just down the hall from the Professor’s bedroom, and he knew it was only so the Professor would hear him in the night if he cried out.

 

But best of all, the man told him about his mother. He’d _known_ Harry’s mother. It wouldn’t matter if the Headmaster found the most wonderful family in the world for Harry, they still wouldn’t be able to give Harry photos of Lily, or tell funny stories about wizarding school, or share actual memories in the big stone bowl thing like the Professor had that one time.

 

So of _course_ Harry wanted to stay here. “Yes!” he cried, unable to restrain himself. He nearly jumped up, too, and ran straight over to the Professor to wrap him in a hug. But he was a little wary of being so forward with the man. The Professors hadn’t seemed comfortable the last time Harry had embraced him, so Harry thought it would be better to show his gratitude with his words instead. “Please, sir, I’d really like to stay. I—I can be really good—“

 

“Potter,” the man snapped, his words sharp even though his black eyes were strangely gentle, “your staying here is not contingent on your good behavior, and it never will be. If I take you on, it will be unconditionally. Do you understand that?”

 

Harry felt a blush creeping over his cheeks, the same one that came every time he had to ask the Professor to explain something. He started to shake his head when he remembered the Professor’s abhorrence for nonverbal answers. “No, sir,” he admitted shyly.

 

“Tell me, would your uncle and aunt throw your cousin out for misbehaving?”

 

Again with the dumb questions. “No, sir.” Of course not. Dudley was their son. Harry didn’t see what this had to do with the meaning of a word. Usually the Professor would just elucidate with a few short phrases, spitting them out as easily as if the man had swallowed a dictionary.

 

“Mm, but what if his behavior were truly deplorable? What if, Mr. Potter, your cousin ran off and nearly got himself killed? Or worse, what if he deliberately disobeyed all your aunt and uncle’s rules? What if he told them ‘no’ from dawn ‘til dusk every day, broke their prized possessions, called them awful names? Would they throw him out or send him away then?”

 

Harry couldn’t help but utter a small snort. The man clearly didn’t know his cousin. Dudley _had_ done just about all of those things and his aunt and uncle still cooed over him and coddled him and gave him lollies and new toys. “No, sir, but—“

 

The Professor held up a hand to cut Harry off. His black eyes glittered with a strange intensity. “Do you imagine that your aunt and uncle are very different from most parents, Mr. Potter? That their love for your cousin is exceptional and excessive?”

 

Well, maybe a little, Harry thought, but only because Dudley was so awful most of the time, and his aunt and uncle still hardly scolded him. But he supposed it was only a tiny bit excessive, since most parents seemed to care a lot for their children, and probably wouldn’t toss them out for being bad.

 

Even the girl in primary who’d been caught stealing things from the classroom had only been punished by her parents, not given up for adoption, even though Aunt Petunia had hinted that she should have been sent away, the dirty, lying thief. And Uncle Vernon had said that he wouldn’t have put up with such a rotten little child in his home, blood or no, and then he’d given Harry a meaningful look. A warning look, Harry figured, meaning that he’d better not make the slightest bit of trouble, because he was only _barely_ blood.

 

“No, sir.” He swallowed thickly, and continued in a small voice, “But that’s different, I know, ‘cause they’re Dudley’s parents, and… and well….”

 

“ _Be-_ cause, Mr. Potter,” Snape corrected him coolly, his eyes still intense. “And as for your point, if— _when_ , I suppose—you officially come under my care, as my ward, I will be taking a binding oath to see to your welfare. There are no caveats, no escape clauses, for that oath. Regardless of your behavior—and it will be exemplary if I have anything to say about it—you will have a place in this home. Had your relatives been a respectable sort, they would have upheld this same oath, though I think we’ve established that they are rather deplorable excuses for human beings. I, however, am a man of my word. Unless you think I am not?” Snape raised an eyebrow at Harry, as if daring him to challenge his honor.

 

Harry didn’t want to. Not because he was afraid to, but because he knew in some deep, powerful place that what Snape said was true. “No, sir.”

 

The Professor gave one short, curt nod of approval. “Good. Then that’s settled. However….” Snape scrubbed a hand over his face again. The man looked utterly exhausted. “We have a bit of a problem, and there is a… a great deal you should know before you accept my guardianship.” Snape made a few gestures with his wand toward the kitchen, and within seconds a full tea service was floating through the door and toward the coffee table.

 

Harry watched, mesmerized, even though the Professor regularly used such magic. Every time he saw something like this, it filled him to the brim with an unbridled sense of joy. It reminded him that he was different, special, that he got to be a part of this amazing world now.

 

That being different was actually a _good_ thing, despite what his aunt and uncle always said.

 

The Professor tapped the tea pot, and instantly steam began billowing out the spout. The man bend over the table, preparing two cups of black tea. “How do you take yours, Potter?”

 

Harry blanched. He knew what the question meant, sure, but it wasn’t as if he’d ever been asked himself. He’d heard his aunt asking the question of her friends. Mrs. Willoughby took it black with two teaspoons of sugar, Mrs. Hartford with a dash of milk… he knew things like that because he occasionally was called to fix their cups for them, and to put on his grateful little orphan act for the neighbors.

 

“Um… nothing,” Harry mumbled.

 

Snape raised a disbelieving brow at Harry but made no comment as he passed over a steaming cup.

 

Harry sipped at the tea, and decided that maybe a little sugar would have been the better choice. This just tasted like odd hot water. Blech. He continued to sip anyway, though, and forced himself not to make any faces, not wanting to make a fool of himself in front of the Professor.

 

The Professor leaned back slightly in his chair, teacup held stiffly in one hand, and crossed one long leg over his knee. He still wasn’t looking directly at Harry; rather, he seemed to be studying the bookshelves along the back right wall dispassionately. “Before we proceed any further, Mr. Potter, there are some things you should know about me. I made some foolish choices in my youth, and those choices have directly impacted your life.” The man took a slow, deliberate sip of his tea. “What did the headmaster tell you of your parents and the Dark Lord?”

 

Harry shifted uncomfortably in the loveseat. “They died when he came after them that night. They were supposed to be protected, but something went wrong and he found them, and—and Mum gave her life to protect me, and that’s why I didn’t die from the curse. It killed him instead.”

 

Snape’s attention flickered to Harry, the man’s eyes expectant somehow. “And?” he prompted.

 

Harry felt an ashamed blush color his cheeks. “That’s mostly all he told me, sir.”

 

The Professor muttered something under his breath, something that sounded rather profane. Then he continued aloud, “You need to know more than that. You _deserve_ to know more. And you’re young, not a toddler. I don’t know what Albus was thinking, but he and his good intentions can go hang.” Another sip, then a pause. “Did the headmaster mention what the Dark Lord stood for, what his followers sought to attain?”

 

Harry shook his head. Though he really should have wondered about that, Harry supposed. He’d just assumed that the dark wizard had been crazy, like the murderers they sometimes talked about on the telly.

 

“Of course not.” The Professor sighed. And then he launched into a long story all about Purebloods and Muggle-born and Half-bloods, and wizards who thought they were better than everyone else.

 


	14. Chapter 14: Werewolves, Death Eaters, and Uncle Vladimir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus explains to Harry his sordid past; the boys finally learn of Dumbledore's plan to allow Severus to adopt Harry.  
> Warnings: slight innuendo

Chapter 14

 

Death Eaters, Werewolves, and Uncle Vladimir

 

Severus’ fingers hesitated on the buttons of his left cuff. _I will do this_ , he told himself. _I will not lie to the boy, I will not omit facts. I will not give him cause to resent me later for having kept this from him._

 

He’d told the boy of the First War. In general terms, he’d described the Dark Lord’s followers, their purpose, their anger and hatred. He’d told the boy of Lily, clever Muggle-born witch that she was, told Potter the younger of how the redhead was always at the top of her class, how she was brilliant in Charms and defied everything that the Dark Lord stood for.

 

And then he’d come to that critical moment, those hateful words he’d spewed that had cemented him in his own path, mired him in his own mistakes. He’d been too blind to see that it hadn’t been about the word itself, that ugly slur. No, it had been about what that word _meant_ —the ease with which it slipped from his lips, the natural place it held in his day-to-day vocabulary.

 

He’d understood eventually, but far too late. After that night he’d pleaded for Dumbledore’s help, after that Halloween when the Dark Lord had slaughtered both Potters and destroyed himself in the process. After the pain of grief had torn through him and shredded every last lie he’d told himself, after he realized that the only way he could say his apologies to her ghost was by devoting himself, body and soul, to fight everything she had fought against.

 

“Sir?”

 

Severus’ attention snapped back to the boy, assessing him. Potter seemed apprehensive. Severus sighed. No sense in delaying. Carefully he slipped the button through the hole and began peeling back the black cotton fabric, rolling it with precision, revealing the pale skin one inch at a time.

 

Severus winced at Potter’s sharp intake of breath.

 

“Wow! Is that a tattoo, sir? It’s so cool—“

 

“It is not a tattoo, boy, and it is not ‘cool’,” Severus snarled before he could temper his reaction. He cursed himself as the boy recoiled as if stung. Drawing a deep breath, Severus forced down his anger—mostly a by-product of the intense self-loathing he felt whenever any attention was paid to the Mark on his forearm. “Do you remember what I said, Potter, about the Dark Lord gathering followers?”

 

Potter nodded slowly, his eyes still wary after Severus’ outburst. Again, the Potions Master cursed himself for unnecessarily frightening the child. After all, how was the boy to know?

 

“The Dark Lord needed a way to contact the faithful. So those he was closest to, those he trusted with his plans and orders, were… branded.” Severus swallowed in a pathetic attempt to mitigate the dryness that was starting to choke his throat. What would the boy think of him now? Potter would run screaming once he understood the meaning behind this “tattoo”. He would beg for Albus to take him away.

 

Nothing for it, Severus reminded himself. He’d lied to Lily about this, and he’d lied to himself for too long before that. He would not lie to her child now. He would confess and accept the consequences of his poor choices. Even if it would hurt to be rejected by Potter as Lily had done.

 

Merlin. When had it come to that? When had he started caring about what the boy thought of him?

 

He watched in apprehension—and a slight bit of satisfaction, he could admit—as the child put everything together. The boy’s eyes widened in horror.

 

“You… you used to….”

 

“Yes,” Severus confirmed quietly, fixing his gaze on the bookshelves to the boy’s side. “I was foolish enough to follow the Dark Lord in my youth. I took the Dark Mark willingly, and I did terrible, unforgivable things in his name.”

 

“Did it hurt?” the boy asked, voice trembling slightly.

 

Severus’ eyes snapped back to Potter, and he could feel his eyes blinking automatically as he tried to make sense of the boy’s question. Did it… hurt? That was what concerned Potter the most? Whether the branding had been painful or not? What was wrong with the boy?

 

Well. No reason not to answer, he supposed. “Yes. It hurt a great deal.”

 

Potter winced, seemingly in sympathy. Strange boy.

 

“It was my choice. I should have known better, but I still chose to take the Mark. We have to live with the consequences of our actions.” Severus sighed and lifted a hand to massage the bridge of his nose. Why was this so damned complicated? “You understand what this means? What I have done? What it means in the context of your personal history?”

 

When Potter didn’t respond immediately, Severus reluctantly pried his eyes up to study the boy. He was chewing his lip thoughtfully, his green eyes narrowed in a look of intense concentration. “You worked for Voldemort.”  
  
Severus flinched as a ghostly twinge of pain lanced up his arm. “Don’t say his name,” he growled, glaring sternly at the boy. “But yes, I did.”

 

“But you left him,” the boy reasoned slowly, stealing a peek up at Severus’ face as he made this conjecture. “ ‘Cause otherwise you wouldn’t take me in or be nice to me or anything.”

 

“ _Be-_ cause,” Severus emphasized, biting his tongue to keep from threatening the boy with lines about speaking properly. This was not the time. “And yes, you’re correct. I… I changed my mind. I went to Professor Dumbledore to see if I could do anything to atone… to make up for all the evil things I’d done. I spied for him for a good while, until the Dark Lord was vanquished. It was too late to make up for the worst of my sins, though.” Severus drew a deep, bracing breath. Here it was. The words that would drive the boy away. “Do you know what a prophecy is, Harry?”

 

Harry fiddled idly with his teacup. “No, sir.”

 

Severus sighed. Yes, nothing was easy. “It is a prediction, usually one that comes true. Certain witches and wizards have a special gift, and they—they deliver these prophecies. You’ve heard of riddles, yes?”

 

The boy’s brow creased briefly in offense. “Yeah. Like, what has hands but cannot clap? Our teacher told us some in primary once.”

 

Severus nodded. “Well, prophecies are like riddles, but much harder to understand. Most are not understood until what they have foretold has already come to pass.”

 

The boy’s brow furrowed further. “But if that’s true, then why bother with them at all? Isn’t that like… like only understanding the weather report from the day before?”

 

Exactly, Severus wanted to say. He’d never had any great love for Divination. But he knew that there were several wizards and witches— _respectable_ members of the community, nonetheless—who would thoroughly disagree with such a simplistic assessment. And he knew that poisoning the boy against all prophecies now would do him no favors in the future, only close his mind. He was far too impressionable at this age.

 

“Perhaps,” Severus hedged. “Sometimes, though, just enough is understood that certain actions can be taken to avoid disasters. It is a poorly-understood art.”

 

Severus watched the boy’s fingers as they nervously stroked the handle of his teacup.

 

“Was there a prophecy about Vol—about _him_ , sir?” he inquired after a moment.

 

Severus allowed his eyes to fall shut now. So much for courage, he thought bitterly. Here he was, having to be led into this difficult admission by an eight-year-old. He could not find enough nerve to broach the subject on his own. Pathetic.

 

“Yes, there was. One about him… and you.” Then, before he could falter further, he pressed on. “I—I was the one to overhear it, actually. I was still in the Dark Lord’s service, and I had gone for an interview in Hogsmeade—a wizarding village,” he explained at the boy’s confused look, “when I heard it. I… I only heard half, but that was enough for me to run straight back to the Dark Lord.” Severus had to swallow past the lump in his throat. “I… I am truly sorry, Harry. It was hearing of that prophecy that set the Dark Lord after your parents.”

  
Severus was not surprised when the little boy shrank back suddenly, his body hunching over protectively, his legs curling inward to lift his knees. “What did it say?” he whispered. Severus barely caught the words.

 

Severus had to wet his lips a few times before he managed to even start the recitation. He fumbled over the words, even though he knew them so well that he could recite them in his sleep—and often did, especially in his nightmares. “The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies… and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have a power the Dark Lord knows not.” Severus stood abruptly, nearly overturning his teacup in his haste, and paced over to the window overlooking the back yard. “Albus would have my head for laying this all on your shoulders, Potter, but you have a right to know. Especially if you would have me as your guardian.”

 

Silence. And then the boy’s small, timid voice, amidst the heaviness of that silence, his words vibrating in the air like stones cast into a still pond. “I don’t think I understand the prophecy, sir.”

 

Severus allowed himself a small, grim smile, and barely restrained himself from retorting that no one understood prophecies, and that he had just finished explaining that concept. “You know the circumstances of your parents’ deaths. The Headmaster told you that much, I know. You vanquished—that is to say, defeated—the Dark Lord that night. You fulfilled your role.” He turned back to the small child, keeping his eyes on the coffee table, on the tea tray, anywhere but those emerald eyes. He could not bear to see the child’s judgment. Not yet. “Born to those who have thrice defied him… your parents fought the Dark Lord viciously, with everything they had. Three times they confronted him. Three times they defied him. Born as the seventh month dies… I believe, Potter, that you know that July is the seventh month, and that your birthday falls at the very end—as the month dies, as it were. Do you follow so far?”

 

Severus caught the boy’s sharp nod out of the corner of his eye. He took that as a cue to continue.

 

“Marked as an equal… well, you bear the scar.”

 

The boy tugged at his fringe self-consciously, as if he could deny that fact by hiding the physical mark.

 

“As for the power the Dark Lord knows not… if the Dark Lord himself does not know, I scarcely believe that anyone else could venture a guess.”

 

Another solemn nod was the boy’s only response to this information. Then he lapsed back into a pensive silence, his brow drawn together unpromisingly.

 

Severus forced himself to settle back into the armchair. For want of something to do—anything, really, to distract him from the nerves that had him so on edge—he began meticulously rolling his sleeve back down, re-covering every inch of the blasted Mark that stood out, even faded as it was, starkly against his pale skin.

 

“Vol— _he_ knew to go after me, after hearing the prophecy,” Harry began after a good long while of silence. “I was the only one who it could have been.”

 

Severus shook his head, fighting the urge to cringe as he remembered his own futile arguments with the Dark Lord. Oh, how he’d tried in vain to condemn the Longbottoms in place of the Potters. “There was another boy, born around the same time, who would have met the criteria. The Dark Lord did not choose him, though.”

 

Potter’s bright eyes shot up, surprised. “But—but he could have?”

 

Severus heard the plaintive not in the boy’s voice, the clear longing for what could have been a much more pleasant childhood. Had the Longbottoms been chosen, Harry would still have both of his parents. He would have grown up in a loving home, not with Petunia and her ilk. So much had been taken from him by that single decision.

 

Too, by Severus’ own role. Had he never delivered that thrice-damned prophecy in the first place….

 

“Yes, he could have. But he did not.”

 

The boy curled in tighter on himself. “I wish….” The words were no more than a faint breath.

 

Severus felt his throat tighten in response to the unspoken wish. “As do I. I wish, in fact, that I’d not been so foolish as to run to the Dark Lord with that prophecy. I wish I’d realized then and there that I would be signing the death warrants of your parents. I… I will never forgive myself for that—“

 

“Voldemort killed them,” Harry interrupted suddenly, his words angry and fierce. He straightened as he spoke, his spine suddenly rigid and unyielding.

  
Severus flinched once more at the pain, but this time he did not have the heart to correct the boy. There were more important things to address. “He did, but I—“

 

“He didn’t have to listen, did he? He—he could have just left them be. ‘Cause— _because_ he really wanted to kill _me_. And that’s stupid, because I was just a little baby. He didn’t have to be scared of me. But he was. So it was Voldemort’s fault, no matter what the—the prophecy thing said.”

 

Severus closed his eyes and shook his head sorrowfully himself. To be young, he thought, and for things to be so beautifully simple. To understand nothing of this twisted web of guilt woven over them all, with the murders of this poor boy’s parents at the epicenter of it all. “Harry, you do not understand. My actions led directly to their demise. Blame the Dark Lord for their murders, yes, but I am equally at fault—“

 

“But you can’t be!” the boy protested, a note of panic worming its way into his tone.

 

Merlin. The boy couldn’t stand whatever image he held of Severus to be tarnished. It was both endearing and horribly guilt-inducing. Why on earth had Potter put him on a pedestal? He hadn’t been overly indulgent with the boy. Hell, he’d been cold and strict and unapproachable for the most part, hadn’t he? Everything that should have put the child off.

 

But no. Harry Bloody Potter had turned him into some kind of saint who’d rescued him from his relatives, and now, hearing the truth of Severus’ past, the boy was fairly imploding. Perhaps this “whole truth and nothing but” business had been a dreadful idea after all.

 

“You didn’t mean to get them killed,” Harry argued frantically, rising from his seat and overturning his teacup in his agitation. His eyes were wide and pleading. “Besides, Voldemort— _him_ , I mean—he would have murdered them anyway, wouldn’t he? You said that they stood up to him and fought against him. He wanted them dead already. And he would have killed me too probably, right? So—so it didn’t change anything.”

 

Severus rubbed his temples hard, trying to stave off the migraine that was quickly building behind his eyes. Yes, what the boy was saying was true, but even so, it did not excuse Severus’ actions. The Potions Master knew that all too well. He would not run from what he’d done; he would face it down every day, he’d vowed, and suffer the agony of those consequences. Now, if only he could explain culpability to his young charge—idealistic Gryffindor though he was.

 

“And besides,” Potter continued blithely, “you’re good now, so it doesn’t matter.”

 

Severus was… good? Where had this pronouncement come from? Not that he’d put it past the boy to make such simplistic, absolute judgments of character, but still. And why did those words feel so strangely close to absolution?

 

Severus immediately brushed the notion off. An eight-year-old could not understand enough of the situation to forgive sins of such magnitude.

 

Still, Severus needed to know what the boy meant by those words, and how he’d reached such an absurd conclusion. Severus was bitter, yes, penitent, resolved, miserable, acerbic, anti-social… the list went on. But nowhere in that collection of attributes was the word “good”.

 

Severus settled for the simplest question he could formulate. “Am I?” He fought to keep his tone even and aloof, but it trembled noticeably.

 

Harry’s bright, Lily-green eyes locked onto his, and the small boy’s gaze seemed to penetrate through every wall Severus had ever tried to erect between himself and the world, straight down to the most vulnerable and starved parts of himself.

 

“Yes,” the boy replied steadily, with absolute conviction, “you are.”

 

Severus swallowed thickly. “And how do you know this, Potter?”

 

Still the boy’s gaze did not waver; it was as steadfast as the certainty lurking in those emerald depths. “You take good care of me. You teach me things and let me play, and when I have nightmares you come and sit with me until I feel better. And you want me to stay with you.”

 

Severus wanted to snort at that, to inform the boy that any simpleton could play the role of devoted caretaker long enough to gain permanent custody before enacting any of their cruel or perverse desires. He wanted to tell the boy that he was young and hopelessly trusting, and that he would do well to guard his heart. He wanted to assert that he, Severus Snape, was not good simply because he’d managed to provide for the boy’s basic needs for a short time.

 

But try as he might, Severus could not get any of those thoughts past his lips. So he turned away, hiding his face, and said nothing as he contemplated how to regain control of this conversation.

 

It was no use, though. Potter had other ideas. The boy carefully extricated himself from his seat and shuffled over toward Severus, his posture both cautious and determined. When he was close enough, he placed a tentative hand on the man’s sleeve. The gesture of comfort was too bizarre coming from the small boy.

 

And too welcome, Severus thought.

 

“I drove your mother away from me,” he confessed suddenly, unable to help himself. Damn those innocent eyes to hell. He wanted— _needed_ —to tell this boy everything and beg for the child’s forgiveness. “I called her an awful name when we were in school. I let her believe that I thought less of her for being born to Muggles.”

The small hand did not withdraw. In fact, it squeezed tighter. “Did you say you were sorry?”

_This child_ , he thought, fighting not to shake his head. “I did,” he murmured, “but it wasn’t enough.”

 

Potter’s face crumpled in dismay. “It should be enough,” the boy asserted. “If you say you’re sorry and mean it, it should be enough.” Those green eyes shot up to his, suddenly accusatory. “You did mean it, didn’t you?”

Severus fought to make his tight throat swallow. “I was sorry that I’d hurt her,” he hedged.

 

Potter didn’t seem to notice his careful qualification of the statement. “And… and you’re still trying to make it up to her now, right? With me?”

 

Severus nodded solemnly. That remained truer than ever. _Lily, I will cherish your son_ , he thought. _I will give him everything that you cannot because of my foolish choices_. There was no use in condemning himself so thoroughly, he thought, that he found himself entirely unworthy of taking on Potter’s guardianship. He had told the boy the essential facts. He would answer the child’s questions now. And Potter had forgiven him willingly enough. That was the end of it.

 

And if Potter changed his mind later, as he matured and was better able to evaluate the situation—without the childish innocence that currently clouded his view of things—well. He would simply have to weather that storm if— _when_ —it came.

For now….

 

“I think she would be happy with you,” Potter offered quietly. “No matter what you did in the past. My primary teacher once said we have to forgive others so that they can forgive us when we mess up.” The boy paused for a moment, as if pondering over a particularly complex thought. “And,” he added, his high, childish voice far too serious, “she said that actions speak louder than words.” It was impossible to miss the gratitude underlying those words.

 

Severus nodded once to accept this. It would not do, he thought, to look a gift horse in the mouth.

 

XXXXX

 

Harry couldn’t keep the bounce out of his step as they made their way to the fireplace in the Professor’s study. They were going to Hogwarts. The Professor wanted to adopt him. Could things get any better?

 

Well, Harry had to admit it would have been better if the Professor hadn’t looked so sad and upset earlier. Harry could understand, sort of, after what the man had told him about his past and the prophecy and all. But at the same time, none of that really mattered to Harry. So what if the man had once followed Voldemort? He didn’t anymore. And the man still felt just awful about it. That was plain to see.

 

And it wasn’t as if he’d murdered Harry’s parents himself. Though the Professor felt like he had. In fact, he’d tried to protect Harry’s mum—though the man could only concentrate on the fact that he hadn’t tried to protect his dad and baby Harry too. Okay, maybe that was bad, Harry had to admit, but the Professor had looked so miserable as he’d confessed that. Harry had to believe that, if given the chance now, the man would trade his _own_ life for all three Potters. And that, Harry had reminded himself emphatically, was all that really mattered.

 

“This will be different than Apparition,” the Professor warned him as he pulled a glazed ceramic dish down from the mantel. “More unpleasant, in my opinion, but less violent.” The man seemed to have recovered his equanimity after their previous conversation. He’d disappeared for a few hours after Harry had run out of questions, still morose, and when he’d turned back up announcing that they had an appointment to keep with the headmaster, he’d seemed more himself.

 

“Will it hurt?” Harry asked shyly, crowding obediently closer to the Professor when the man beckoned to him.

 

“No, it should not.” Snape guided Harry directly into the empty grate, pushing the boy’s head down lightly so that it would clear the stone of the mantel. He stepped in after the boy, crowding into the narrow space along with him. It was tight, but roomier than Harry had anticipated, though he had to press uncomfortably close to the professor’s midriff in order to fit.

 

“You’ll be flooing with me,” the Professor informed him. His voice rang loudly in Harry’s ears, amplified by the brick and mortar of the chimney. “As with Apparition, hang on tightly. And close your mouth and don’t breath through your nose, else you’ll get a lungful of ash.”

 

Harry obeyed as best he could, sealing his mouth and puffing out his cheeks as he held his breath in. The Professor wrapped an arm around his shoulders and drew him closer.

 

“Headmaster’s Office, Hogwarts!” Professor Snape through down a handful of silvery, powdery substance, and suddenly a green fire flared to life all around them.

 

Harry barely contained his startled gasp as he braced himself to be burned alive. But the flames were not unbearably hot, just warm and dry, and Harry had little time to contemplate them, as they were immediately shot up like a rocket, spinning and twisting wildly amidst the maelstrom of hot air and ash. Harry buried his face in the Professor’s dark, coarse robes and held tightly, even as the forces of the floo seemed to attempt to part them.

 

Then a few seconds later they were tumbling somewhere, and gravity returned full force. It clamped down on Harry like a vice, and if it hadn’t been for the Professor’s steadying hands on his shoulders he would have tumbled face-first onto the rug.

 

He couldn’t see out of his glasses. They were all gray from the trip through the fireplace. He was about to rub his palms against the lenses to clear them when they were plucked from his nose, then redeposited, spotless. Harry blinked up at the Professor, who was now leveling his wand at Harry. The man uttered something, and Harry felt a gentle breeze surround him before glancing down at his clothes—a button-down shirt and dress slacks that the Professor had shrunk down for him. They, too, were immaculate once more, not a speck of ash on them.

 

Harry couldn’t help himself. He grinned up at the Professor. “Thanks.”

 

The Professor merely quirked a brow at him, which Harry had learned was the man’s way of saying “you’re welcome”. And then, as if to explain away the action, he added, “We have to have you presentable for the headmaster.”

 

Harry chose not to respond to that. Instead, he started to look around the room they’d flooed into—the Headmaster’s office. He’d never seen such a wonderful place in all his life. Even the shops in Diagon Alley couldn’t compare, he thought, as he examined the various magical instruments that buzzed and whirred on the man’s shelves. He paused before a strange contraption where a collapsible golden ball was slowly shrinking and expanding. It was surrounded by four thin golden rods that stood erect like pillars. Harry reached out a finger to push at the floating ball, to see if it would move.

 

"Potter!" A hand closed around his wrist, restraining it.

 

Harry jumped back, his gaze swinging guiltily to the professor.

 

Snape was glowering down at him, his fingers still mercilessly tight around Harry’s wrist. “We do not touch what is not ours—“

 

“No harm, Severus!” came the Headmaster’s jovial voice. He swept down from the staircase behind the desk, his wrinkled face pulled into a bright grin. “There’s nothing in here that cannot be fixed with a simple _reparo_! Hmm, except, perhaps, the Obfuscifying Orblet… ah, but happily that is on a shelf well beyond young Harry’s reach. And how are you this fine evening, Harry? Keeping Professor Snape on his toes, I hope?”

 

Harry couldn’t help but marvel at how strange the headmaster appeared in that moment. He’d donned an emerald green robe, a rather loud number, and Harry could swear that the embroidery at the edges of the sleeves was sparkling. The man was grinning broadly over his crooked nose and half-moon spectacles, looking to all the world like a deranged lunatic. But a kindly lunatic, Harry thought, like the sort who would babble nonsense to himself in the corner of an asylum.

 

Then Harry flushed to himself for thinking such a terrible thing, because clearly the Professor respected the headmaster a great deal, even if he did have his quirks. But it was still so _odd_ , Harry thought, to see men and women walking about in garish robes as if they were perfectly normal.

 

But then, the Professor still mocked him for gaping at floating dishes whenever they had their meals together.

 

“Hello, sir,” Harry offered politely, retreating as he did toward the Professor. He felt better once he was at the man’s side, though Harry didn’t know why such as small thing should make a difference.

 

“Well, let us not linger out here,” the headmaster announced, clapping his hands together. He seemed rather excited this evening, Harry thought. He didn’t know if that was a good or a bad thing. “I thought a more intimate setting might be appropriate for this meeting, so our guest is awaiting us in my parlor. Come now, boys, pip pip! Up the stairs, no reason to tarry!”

 

And with that he ascended back up the stairs, not even bothering to wait for them.

 

“Don’t worry, Potter,” Snape said out of the side of his mouth as he strode forward to comply. “Whatever he has isn’t catching, else we’d have all been driven mad long ago.”

 

Harry grinned to himself as he followed. He liked it when the Professor joked like this. He wished the man would do it more often.

 

He trailed after the pair, casting one longing glance back at the contraptions in the headmaster’s office. What he wouldn’t give, he thought, to be able to spend just a little more time here. He liked the Professor’s home, but it was so very _plain_ by comparison.

 

Well, maybe he could convince the Professor to get a few contraptions like the headmaster’s. Perhaps the man wouldn’t mind too much.

 

“Coming, boy?” Snape called impatiently from the top of the stairs.

 

Harry realized that he’d allowed himself to become distracted. He shook himself out of his daze and hurried up the steps to catch up with the Professor.

 

Harry wasn’t entirely sure what to expect once they entered through the portal at the top of the stairs. Another office, perhaps, with more tempting magical gizmos for Harry to appreciate. With his eyes, this time, he firmly told himself.

 

Instead, they entered into a grandiose—but entirely dignified—sitting room, where the Headmaster and another man were waiting for them, both perched on overstuffed antique armchairs. The Headmaster was still beaming at them both, the wrinkled lines of his face carved in what appeared to Harry to be unadulterated delight.

 

The other man, however, was far more reserved. His clothing, to begin with, was utterly dull compared to the Headmaster’s. He wore what appeared to be an olive robe, and beneath that a pressed white dress shirt. Nothing remarkable, except that the robe still looked absurd to Harry. The Professor donned them occasionally, but he was just as likely as not to wear only his slacks and a button-up shirt.

 

 In a way, his stony expression reminded Harry greatly of the Professor. He was older, and balding, the remains of his halo of pale brown hair scraped uselessly over the glaring bare patch that radiated up from his forehead. He was not as thin as the Professor, and his features not nearly as sallow, though they were washed out. Harry’s eyes immediately fell to the small mole just to the left of the man’s nose.

 

His grey-green eyes immediately locked on Harry, and he rose to his feet fluidly. He gave a curt nod to Harry before turning rather stiffly to face the Professor.

 

Automatically, Harry moved closer to the Professor.

 

“ _Albus_.” The Professor uttered the Headmaster’s name like he might a dirty word. “Whatever scheme you’ve concocted this time, you’ve neglected to mention involving third parties—“

 

“Severus, may I present Vladimir Afanasyev? He has graciously agreed to assist us with our current quandary.”

 

Harry stole a glance at the Professor’s face. The man’s lips were puckered unhappily, his brow drawn. But he still extended a hand to the man.

 

“A pleasure. Severus Snape, Master of Potions—“

 

The stranger squeezed the Professor’s hand in what looked to Harry to be a painful grip.

 

“Here at Hogwarts, yes. I have heard much about you from Albus. Much.” The man’s words struck Harry as rather dark and hinting, but he couldn’t understand why. “Your past, in particular, I have found… fascinating.”

 

The Professor’s lips pressed together more tightly. “It is well behind me. And I beg you to remember that.”

 

The man released the Professor’s hand and stepped back slightly, arching a brow. “Hm. Indeed. Albus has reassured me several times over of your good character, and as my faith in him is absolute….” The man shrugged. “I suppose his good opinion will be enough for me.”

 

Harry moved a touch closer still to the Professor, who by then was holding himself taught as a bowstring. “So glad to hear it. Now, if I might inquire of you both _why_ your good opinion should matter….”

 

The Headmaster cleared his throat lightly. “This is Vladimir Afanasyev, Severus. Surely you’ve heard of him.”

 

The Professor simply stared in response. “I have heard the name Alexander Afanasyev, yes, in association with Russian literature, but only in passing. As for a Vladimir, however….”

 

“Ah.” The Headmaster turned apologetically to the man—Vladimir. “Of course. I don’t suppose that you are particularly well known outside of our chosen field, hmm? Vladimir is a respected expert in the field of Transfiguration—particularly, he is well-known for his contributions to the field of Meta-Magics, which is to say—“

 

“Spells, incantations, and rites that influence magic itself, yes,” the Professor interrupted in a bored drawl. “I am _educated_ , Albus. But I believe that I—that we both, in fact—are owed something of an explanation. The hearing is hours away, you realize—“

 

“Yes, yes,” the Headmaster agreed, waving a hand as if to bat aside the Professor’s concerns. “Hmm… where to begin. Vladimir, I don’t suppose that you would do the honors? And let us all sit, yes? It makes for a more pleasant conversation.”

 

The Professor sighed and lowered himself onto the sofa. Harry hesitated until the Professor arched an impatient brow at him and jerked his head rather sharply toward the empty place beside him, indicating that Harry should take it. Harry did.

 

“Very well,” the Professor sighed, “I suppose that you’ve hatched some scheme involving complex transfigurative magics designed to disguise me….”

 

The Headmaster and the stranger exchanged a significant glance.

 

“In a way, yes,” the Headmaster conceded after a moment.

 

“Albus, this is a case of guardianship that we’re discussing—not to mention the guardianship of _Harry Potter_! Turning me into a complete stranger will do us no favors—“

 

“Perhaps we should start at the beginning,” the Headmaster suggested musingly, tugging at that long beard of his.

 

Harry watched the stranger, Mr. Affayessa-something—Afanasyev—who was regarding him and the Professor with something like an amused look. “The beginning. Yes. Well, I am not here merely because I am an old acquaintance of Albus’. It just so happens that I am a distant cousin of Lily’s—twice removed, on her mother’s side, the line that traces back to Russia. I did not know her well, but we corresponded briefly in her later school years, mostly concerning things of an academic nature. She’d read up on my work, you understand, and, her natural curiosity piqued—especially considering that we are related and magical—”

 

“You are Muggle-born, and so was Lily. You exchanged letters.” The Professor made a sharp, impatient gesture with one of his hands. “Much as I would like to hear the entirety of this saga, Mr. Afanasyev, we are, in fact, on a rather tight schedule. So, if you would kindly get to the point….”

 

The stranger cast a strange look at the Headmaster, one that seemed to Harry to mean that he’d been warned about how snappish the Professor could get.

 

“Very well, Mr. Snape.” The man folded his hands over his lap and fixed his steel-grey stare on the Professor. “I was fond of Lily, though I did not know her well. And I would very much like to do all I can to aid her child”—here the man’s gaze strayed back to Harry, strangely sad—“though I could not take him myself.”

 

The Professor made a scornful noise as he shifted restlessly on the sofa. “Is this right, Albus? If I express reservations, you push and prod me into doing what you wish, but if one of your esteemed _colleagues_ has his doubts, you let him go without hesitation? When I agreed to take the boy, I was told he had no other options! That it was my home or an orphanage, effectively! Yet here is a _blood relative_ who might stake a legitimate claim, where I have none!”

 

Harry couldn’t help but shrink back a ways from the Professor at those words. They sank like stones into his stomach, weighing him down, pulling with them every last little shred of joy he’d felt when the Professor had offered to let him stay. The man didn’t actually _want_ him there, of course. He’d thought that Harry had no other options.

 

Stupid of him to think that those pictures, that all those stories, that the memories of his mother meant anything. No, Harry was just luck that the Professor had decided to share those at all. Harry wrapped his arms tightly over his midsection and ducked his head down, doing his best not to let his hurt show.

 

The Headmaster cleared his throat lightly, and Harry felt without seeing the elder wizard’s gaze shifting to him. “Severus, perhaps I misunderstood our conversation earlier? It seemed to me then that the prospect of having Harry stay with you was not nearly so… hm… onerous.”

 

“Of course it isn’t,” Snape growled. “I thought I’d made myself perfectly clear! I merely mean to say that—well! That surely he will be better off with a blood relative than with….”

 

“Not with me, I am afraid,” Mr. Afanasyev cut in, his words low and smooth. “I am afraid I am not what your Ministry would deem a… hm, a reliable guardian. Not to mention that I absolutely will not subject myself to any blood-based tests.” Mr. Afanasyev’s eyes swung to the Headmaster’s, and Harry thought that there was a question there. Not like the man was asking for permission, but asking if what he was about to do was a good idea.

 

The Headmaster nodded once, firmly, his long white beard dipping deep, nearly to his waist.

 

“Very few are privy to this information, Professor,” Mr. Afanasyev began warningly. “And for good reason. I can trust that what is said here will not go beyond the confines of this room?”

 

Harry saw the Professor’s gaze flicker to the Headmaster, the question in his eyes nearly the same as Mr. Afanasyev’s had been earlier. And again the Headmaster gave a steady nod, his blue eyes solemn.

 

“Provided that you are not a fugitive criminal, or something equally abhorrent, yes, I will keep my own counsel.”

 

Harry startled when Mr. Afanasyev burst out into deep, throaty laughter.

 

“And how, Professor, might you define ‘equally abhorrent’? Quite a wide loophole you have left yourself, no?”

 

“You do not trust my discretion, Mr. Afanasyev?” Snape shot back, his frown deepening the furrows of his brow.

 

“Severus, I quite assure you, the only danger posed by this knowledge is to Vladimir’s academic career and social standing,” the Headmaster offered soothingly.

 

“Salacious, then. You are afraid I will use it as fodder for blackmail? Or that I am a hopeless gossipmonger?”

 

“I ask only your word that you will not share this with anyone,” Mr. Afanasyev replied calmly. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

 

Snape drew in a deep, sharp breath, his shoulders rising and nostrils flaring with the force of it. He exhaled very slowly. “Very well.”

 

“I contracted lycanthropy nine years ago, during Voldemort’s”—the Professor winced slightly—“first rise to power. Rather than risk total alienation from my colleagues, I announced that Europe had become too dangerous for me, and my research too dangerous for Europe, and I relocated to a remote region of Siberia. My mother was a full-blooded Russian, and so I speak the mother tongue well enough to get by. I have maintained correspondence, academic and otherwise, with colleagues, but I have not been back in the public eye here in Europe since my self-imposed exile.”

 

Harry didn’t really understand much of what had been said. He knew from “contract” that Mr. Afanasyev was sick somehow, but didn’t know what with. He also didn’t understand how that mattered at all, except to explain why Harry couldn’t have lived with him. Well, that and the man lived in Siberia, which Harry knew was really, really cold and far away.

 

The room grew very silent, so silent that the occasional crackle and pop of the fire seemed to echo deafeningly in the small chamber.

 

Harry steeled himself. The Professor may not really want Harry, but he’d always answered all of Harry’s questions, and patiently too. Sometimes with a little nod of approval, even, like it was a good thing that Harry asked rather than remain ignorant.

 

Harry tugged lightly at the Professor’s sleeve to get the man’s attention. The Professor turned slightly, a brow raised.

 

“Sir, what’s—what’s lion-throwy?”

 

“Lycanthropy,” the Professor corrected automatically. “It is a disease with no cure. Its— _victims_ ”—the Professor spoke the word as though he thought it didn’t really fit—“transform into werewolves during the full moon. They lose all sense of self and attack friend and foe alike during that time.”

 

Harry cast a fearful glance over at Afanasyev. A werewolf? Like the kind in horror films that they sometimes showed on the telly?

 

“Unless,” Afanasyev interjected coolly, “they have access to a very special potion, young Harry. Wolfsbane. It allows us to keep our minds, though we still become a bit hairier than we desire.” The man winked at him, and Harry felt himself inexplicably relax. So what if the man turned into a werewolf, anyway? It wasn’t like the people who did ever actually _wanted_ to. Right?

 

“And that is what you will get out of this mad scheme, yes?” the Professor pressed, his tone growing sharp. “A lifetime supply of Wolfsbane, in exchange for—what? I still haven’t the foggiest idea of how you intend this to work out—”

 

“Patience, Severus,” the headmaster chided.

 

“I already have a competent supplier in Siberia,” Afanasyev informed the Professor coolly. “But thank you for assuming I would only act out of self-interest.”

 

“I merely meant to offer my services, should you have need,” the Professor drawled. “No need to take offense.”

 

“Shipping an unstable, time-sensitive brew halfway across the world seems a touch impractical, no?”

 

There was a snide edge in Afanasyev’s voice that reminded Harry of his aunt’s neighbors getting together to brag about house renovations. They were always trying to outdo each other, or cut each other down. He remembered how his aunt would disguise her criticisms as compliments. _Yes, it’s lovely, Dawn—so wonderful that you can get serviceable carpeting on a budget. And such bold colors! One would think that they would be an eyesore…._

“I’ve no knowledge of the competence of brewers in Siberia,” the Professor remarked flippantly. “For all I know, you’ve been forced to lock yourself in a shack for full moons and to suffer through the repercussions alone.”

 

“I, Mr. Snape, have the foresight to do my homework on a particular region before I commit to moving there. I knew that a fine brewer lived a short pop away from the area I’d chosen. Truly, I find it strange that such a precaution would not even occur to you; Albus had, after all, reassured me that you were an intelligent man.”

 

“I am a man of many talents, Mr. Afanasyev. I rarely am forced to rely on others for substances vital to my well-being. One would think you had learned the value of self-sufficiency, living as you have—"

 

“Boys,” the Headmaster cautioned, glancing between the pair. “We are not here to compare wand lengths.”

 

Harry did not understand the Headmaster’s remark, nor why the Professor’s normally sallow skin was suddenly flushed bright red.

 

“Albus!” the man hissed.

 

Mr. Afanasyev, on the contrary, looked vaguely amused, with a smirk threatening at the corners of his lips.

 

Harry tugged on the Professor’s sleeve again. “Sir,” he asked as quietly and unobtrusively as possible, “what does he mean, wand lengths?”

 

“Albus, care to explain to the child what you mean by _comparing wand lengths_?” the Professor demanded caustically.

 

The Headmaster smiled brightly at Harry. “Certainly. You see, Harry, in this case, wands are analogous to a certain part of the male anatomy—”

 

And Harry heard no more than that, as the Professor promptly clamped his hands over Harry’s ears. Though Harry had no trouble hearing the Professor, whose voice had rose considerably in volume.

 

“He is eight years old! Don’t you dare.” The Professor waited a moment, and Harry could just _feel_ the man’s glare. After a few seconds the Professor removed his hands.

 

“You invited me to explain, Severus.”

 

“And if I invited you to take a flying leap off the Astronomy Tower, would you comply?”

 

“That sounds like a rather invigorating proposal—”

 

“Ahem.” Mr. Afanasyev cleared his throat rather conspicuously. “I was under the impression that I was invited here for more pressing matters. The boy’s custody hearing?”

 

“Ah, yes. Now, Severus, you understand Vladimir’s difficult position. He cannot remain long in our community without arousing suspicions, or risking a brewer’s indiscretion—”

 

“I repeat that I could be perfectly discreet,” the Professor interjected, casting a meaningful glare toward Afanasyev.

 

“Mm. I do not doubt your discretion, Mr. Snape, but there is no need for it. Regular absences at the full moon would be difficult enough to explain. That, and my work truly is dangerous, and best left to… hm, less populated areas. My return is out of question. However, I may be able to assist you as, from what I understand, you do not possess the necessary credentials to be considered as a guardian for young Harry Potter.”

 

The Professor stiffened beside Harry. “Yes, that is correct. You have already remarked upon my past, and I’ve no blood ties to the boy.”

 

Mr. Afanasyev nodded curtly. “I propose to lend you my identity—to allow you take on the boy in my stead. I can claim blood ties through his maternal line, and we can tell the story that Harry has been staying with me after he was removed from his relatives’ care. For public appearances you may assume my identity, and claim that you and the boy are often away for work to deter any would-be well-wishers.”

 

The Professor huffed. “A fine plan, but even Polyjuice has its limits. For one, it would never allow me to pass Ministry-administered tests. And unless you plan on owling regular shipments of your hair to supplement whatever we might harvest from you now, my ability to take the boy out in public will be unduly restricted.”

 

“Precisely why I am not proposing Polyjuice.” Afanasyev reached into his robes and withdrew a smallish black rectangle, one that was slightly larger than his hand. It appeared to be made of something very hard, because Harry could see how the light glinted off the surfaces of the box. “This is another secret, Mr. Snape, the fruits of my labors. I trust that, as a fellow innovator, you will not go about chattering idly about what I have done?”

 

The Professor just glared at the man for some time. Finally, he replied in a very hard tone, “I do not _chatter_. Nor do I gossip. I am a very insular man, not a hare-brained socialite in desperate need of scandalous rumors to spread about.”

 

Again, Harry saw that Afanasyev was practically smirking, as if he were merely teasing the Professor, and enjoying it all the while. “Very well.” The man withdrew a wand—pale, almost bleached, unlike the Professor’s. Harry squinted at it closely, trying to decide if it was long or short compared to the Professor’s.  But his focus on that immediately dissolved when Afanasyev tapped his wand against the black square.

 

The top lifted slowly, like a clam raising its shell, until the solid black rectangle was transformed into something akin to the jewelry boxes that Uncle Vernon occasionally brought home to Aunt Petunia. And there, at the heart of the black square box, was an enormous silver amulet, engraved with a myriad of intricate designs and symbols that Harry could not even begin to make out. The thing seemed to be humming, too—a phantom buzz that Harry couldn’t quite hear, but knew was there.

 

“This is, I can quite confidently say, my life’s work. It is a part of me. And I mean that in the most literal sense.” Afanasyev carefully withdrew the amulet from the box and held it suspended before him. “It is a Transformative Core. I have poured my essence into it and turned it into an anchor of my own core. I have laboriously inscribed into this piece of jewelry every external and magical detail that makes me _me_ , and now its wearer is able to assume my form completely.”

 

The Professor leaned forward slightly. Harry could see the glimmer of awe in the man’s eyes—reverence, even. “When you say completely….”

 

“It will transform the wearer to the physical extent that Polyjuice would, though it will bestow upon the wearer my mannerisms, gait, and—to a certain extent—my speech patterns. Unlike Polyjuice, however, it cannot be dispelled, as it works on the wearer’s very core. Also unlike Polyjuice the wearer will be able to perfectly reproduce my magical signature.”

 

The Professor pushed himself up from the couch and drew closer to the amulet, hovering like a moth around a flickering candle. Hesitantly, he reached out a hand to brush the filigree. “That is… most impressive. Though the danger of allowing such an object into another’s hands—”

 

“You see why I had such reservations. Why I asked if Albus could guarantee the moral fiber of the man he proposed I lend this to.”

 

“I will guard it with my life,” the Professor vowed solemnly. The man’s eyes flickered back to Harry. “We have but hours to get our story straight, and if Potter is to be convincing, we should begin immediately.”

 

Harry’s heart gave a sudden jolt. He was going to have to lie if he understood things correctly. The Professor was going to pretend to be Mr. Afanasyev so that the wizards would let him keep Harry. Though why Harry couldn’t just tell the wizards that he wanted to stay with Professor Snape was beyond Harry’s comprehension.  

 

“Take it,” Afanasyev urged. “Allow yourself to become accustomed to it. The magic is potent and disorienting, I am told, much more so than Polyjuice.”

 

The Professor did so, handling the amulet very carefully. “What will the boy call you—me?” the man wondered aloud.

 

“Uncle Vladimir, perhaps?” the Headmaster suggested jovially, with a quick wink to Harry.

 

The Professor snorted. “Uncle Vladimir. I suppose it will have to do.”


	15. The Hearing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry, Severus, and Dumbledore attend Harry's custody hearing at the Ministry.

Severus rubbed at his temple once more, wishing, not for the first time that day, that he could indulge in a stiff drink or two. He could not understand for the life of him why the Headmaster’s plan had to be so damned complicated.

“So on the occasions when I am forced to take Potter out in public, I will adopt my”—here his lips curled distastefully—“ _Uncle Vladimir_ persona.”

Vladimir himself glared at Severus. “You have a problem with my name, Mr. Snape?”

“It is a fine name,” Severus replied evenly, “for those who sleep in coffins and drain their victims of blood—”

“Severus,” Dumbledore cautioned Severus, though mirth shone in his blue eyes.

“It will do,” Severus muttered grudgingly. “Especially since I do not plan to be in the public eye on a regular basis. So I will continue to go about my business as myself, without letting on that the boy is still in my care….”

Dumbledore nodded. “As far as the Ministry and all other parties are concerned, Harry will be remaining in England with his eccentric Uncle, who is very much a paranoid recluse.”

“And when they question the boy—Potter! Are you even paying attention?”

The boy in question was swinging his feet in front of him, staring vapidly at his knees. His head snapped up as soon as Severus addressed him, his wide eyes comical. “Uh-huh,” he confirmed. “I—”

“ _Grunting unintelligibly_ is not an acceptable answer,” Severus cut the little cretin off. Merlin, how many times would they have to go over this? “Use your words.”

Severus did not miss the sympathetic look that suddenly overcame Dumbledore’s features, nor the judgmental quirk of Afanasyev’s eyebrow. He ignored them both.

The boy’s face went crimson. “Yes—”

“Then tell me where you were taken and with whom you spent your time after being removed from your relatives’ care.”

“With you—oh.” Potter bit his lip nervously and glanced back at Dumbledore, as if the answers were encoded in the man’s beard. “Um, Professor Dumbledore introduced me to another relative, Uncle Vladimir, who knew my mother. And Uncle Vladimir has a house somewhere in England, but I don’t know where exactly because he likes his privacy.”

Snape nodded firmly, denying the automatic urge to praise the boy for remembering such a detail. Perhaps the boy’s head hadn’t been entirely in the clouds after all.

Encouraged, Potter continued, his words gathering steam, “And Uncle Vladimir—”

“Just ‘uncle’,” Snape declared suddenly. “I’ve changed my mind.” Afanasyev shot him a dirty look. Snape continued to ignore him.

Potter nodded solemnly to himself. “Uncle. Uncle took me to his home and we’ve spent the last week together. He’s been teaching me all sorts of things, and he bought me nice toys, and he lets me help him with cooking….”

As Potter babbled on, it was Severus’ turn to blush. They’d instructed the boy to simply describe his time in Cokesworth at Spinner’s End, replacing “the Professor” with “Uncle”. And now Potter was ruining his reputation in the eyes of his employer. _Goodbye, authoritarian Head of Slytherin, noted scholar and respected pioneer in your field. Hello, Mary Bloody Poppins._

“That’s enough, Potter,” Severus muttered uncomfortably. “Just a few details will suffice, unless you are prompted for more.” Severus pushed himself to his feet once again and started restlessly pacing the length of Albus’ parlor. They were due at the Ministry in less than two hours. “You believe Mr. Afanasyev’s relationship to Lily will be sufficient? That it will overcome even Lucius’ claim on the boy?”

“Lucius is several degrees further away in terms of genealogy,” Albus reassured him. “Furthermore, he has no established personal relationship with the boy. Lucius may wield a great deal of influence within the sitting body, but not enough to hold any sway over the laws of blood and kinship. You know as well as I how sacred they are in our world.”

Severus paused at the far end of the room, his gaze straying out onto the Hogwarts grounds—bathed golden now in the late summer sun. “And you are certain, Mr. Afanasyev, that this… device… of yours will operate without flaw? That it will allow me to pass as you in every respect?”

“I would not have suggested it to Albus were I not absolutely sure,” Afanasyev replied gravely.  

Severus sighed. “And what is our plan if they boy dooms us by speaking out of turn?”

“I won’t!” Potter protested indignantly. “I—I understand. ‘M not stupid—”

“ ‘M’ is a letter, not a word,” Severus corrected him automatically. “And your ability to lie convincingly to our governing body has yet to be seen.”

“Harry is a very bright boy, Severus,” Albus interjected quietly.

Severus turned just in time to see the triumphant grin stretching Potter’s lips. His green eyes glimmered with challenge, all but screaming “so there”. Merlin, he wanted to hex the old man.

“Let us merely _imagine_ ,” Snape pressed, “that the boy is the victim of an unfortunate slip of the tongue. The three of us are caught trying to lie directly to the Ministry in order to get precious Harry Potter permanently assigned to reside with a former Death Eater. Oh, don’t look aghast, Albus; the boy already knows. But imagine the position we are put in. You lose a great deal, if not all, of your credibility in the eyes of wizarding society, _I_ am convicted of trying to impersonate another wizard in kinship affairs, and Mr. Afanasyev is discovered to be in possession of a powerful artifact that will likely as not be labeled ‘dark’. What then, Albus?”

Dumbledore’s response was so brittle that Severus immediately regretted hounding the elder wizard about contingencies. “I would prefer not to contemplate that outcome, Severus. Not unless we are faced with it.”

Severus decided that he would rather not contemplate that outcome either.

XXXXX

Harry’s excitement had died considerably since reaching Hogwarts. After having heard the Professor’s—no, _Uncle’s_ , he corrected himself—concerns, now he could scarcely contain his nervousness. He might mess this all up. He might confuse things and actually blurt out something that gave away the game.

He understood why they had to lie about things. The Professor hadn’t been patient enough to fully explain things to Harry, but the Headmaster had pulled Harry aside and given him a handful of candies before explaining to Harry about the Ministry and Silly Antiquated Laws, and how most people wouldn’t want Professor Snape to be able to care for him because he wasn’t related to Harry and had done bad things a long time ago.

And Harry understood, he thought. The lie they were telling wasn’t hurting anyone. Mr. Afanasyev had given permission for the Professor to pretend to be him, and the only people who might want to know the truth were probably people who would want to hurt Harry. People like the witch Bellatrix. So lying about this was okay, he decided. And he would do his best to lie.

They’d gone through the fireplace—the Floo—again, the Professor pulling Harry close and holding him tightly at his side for the trip. Except this time the Professor didn’t look like the Professor at all, of course, because he was pretending to be Uncle. He’d slipped the amulet on and traded wands with Mr. Afanasyev, and then cast spells on his robes so that they matched the other man’s perfectly, so that the two of them appeared to be twins. More than twins, even—mirror images that started to have one final in-depth conversation about laws or something that Harry couldn’t follow.

And now they were at the Ministry for Magic, in the foyer (what the Professor—Uncle!—called it when Harry asked), where the polished stone seemed to stretch on forever before all of the large, official fireplaces. Witches and wizards arrived in flashes of green, stepping out into the vast aisleway, their robes billowing behind them—and not many of them as plain as the Professor’s usual outfit. Some wore robes of a shimmering material, others had outfits trimmed with fur or feathers. One tall, thick-necked wizard swung a cape before him that seemed to be made of some type of variegated emerald scales.

“Not dragon,” the Professor had told him when he’d caught Harry watching.

Professor Dumbledore arrived shortly behind them, smiling jovially as ever, and they set off toward the main entrance (the “Atrium” according to the professor, whatever that meant). Harry couldn’t help but stare in wonder at the gold symbols flickering across the bright blue floor; idly, he wondered if they meant anything, and if he’d ever be able to understand them. Maybe the Professor or the Headmaster could tell him what they meant. Were they a welcome message in a secret magic language?

“Mr. Potter,” Professor-Uncle snapped at one point. The man seized him by the arm and tugged him forward, his now-grey eyes glittering with the same menace as the Professor’s usual black eyes. “We are currently running late to a very important hearing, one upon which your entire future hinges. Do. Not. Dawdle.”

Harry bobbed his head once, abashed, before remembering to add quietly, “Sorry.”

He kept up after that. Even when they reached the Atrium and the big, impressive fountain with all sorts of creatures, all in bright gold. They’d learned all about national treasures in primary, but Harry had never been to a museum to see anything so incredible in person, and standing in the presence of such a monument now was more than overwhelming.

 Harry wondered if people threw wizard money into the water and made wishes, like people sometimes did in parks and such, and if, because of the magic, those wishes came true.

“Profess—Uncle,” Harry corrected himself, tugging lightly at the Professor-Uncle’s robes.

“What?” the man hissed. They were moving into a queue of wizards and witches that had formed outside of an area restricted by golden gates. They queue advanced slowly as each witch or wizard went up and showed their wand to another wizard, a man in neat, unremarkable robes who stood beside the gates like some kind of bouncer.

Harry instantly regretted having bothered the man. But he knew the Professor would just be angrier if he didn’t ask anything at all. So he wracked his brain, trying to come up with a respectable question. “Um… do you have to come to the Ministry for Magic a lot?”

“Ministry _of_ Magic, you dolt,” the Professor replied quietly, his words hard and taut, as if they might snap and turn to angry yelling at any moment. “And no, I do not. Now be quiet and do not cause trouble.”

The Headmaster caught Harry’s eye and winked, though he said nothing. Harry smiled back at him a bit uncertainly.

When they reached the gate, the guard-wizard’s eyes grew wide, just as wide as all those people’s had in Diagon Alley when the Professor had taken him shopping. “Well, I’ll be a horn-tailed newt! Harry Potter, is it? In the flesh?”

Harry shrank back, inevitably toward the Professor, who’d gone stiff as a board.

“I believe it is your duty to register our wands, Mr….?”

“Hartsmoor,” the wizard supplied, his eyes still on Harry.

“Hartsmoor. Yes, it is your duty to register our wands, is it not? Not to accost a largely-clueless child who needs to attend an important hearing in just minutes?”

The wizard seemed largely unfazed. He ignored the Professor. “It’s a true honor to meet you, Mr. Potter, it is. What you did for us all will never be forgotten.”

Harry’s face burned hot, and he felt a sickly feeling gathering in his gut. It wasn’t right, he thought. He hated this. He hadn’t done anything! People were just—just thanking him for being a bloody orphan! “I don’t remember doing anything, sir. Just that my parents are dead and that I’ll never get to know them.”

The man’s eyes went wide again, this time with shock. He looked helplessly to the Headmaster, whose own face had tightened and dulled, and to the Professor, who looked… smug? And angry. Was that even possible, to be smug and angry at the same time?

“We thank you for your kind reminder,” the Professor told him coolly. “Our wands?”

The man made no more comments to Harry after that, just took the Professor’s and the Headmaster’s wands. He looked sheepish as he did so, and barely deigned to speak above a whisper when he handed them back. “Level Ten, Courtroom 1C.”

“Thank you, my boy,” the Headmaster said, beaming.

The Professor grunted and, taking firm hold of Harry’s arm once more, proceeded to drag him down the hall through the golden gates.

Harry found himself stumbling along, barely able to keep up with the Professor’s long strides. They turned sharply and entered directly into a small room in the wall just down the hallway—an elevator!

The Headmaster stepped in serenely, clasping his hands before him as he settled into the corner beside Harry and the Professor. The Professor reached above himself with one hand, grasping a strap that dangled from the ceiling of the lift, his other arm drawing Harry against his body once more and pinioning him with the same force he applied prior to Apparition and Flooing.

A few more witches and wizards crowded in, most wearing brisk, business-like expressions, and some even carrying versions of briefcases. Their bodies pressed into the space tightly, there was a click from the front of the lift, and then the whole thing was suddenly hurtling with such force that Harry had to fight not to lose his lunch.

He didn’t catch all the stops. There were a bunch of Departments of This and That, and finally they reached level ten, at which point the Professor was shuffling him out the door the way one might corral a stubborn goat.

“Remember,” the Professor hissed to him as they made their way out into another grand hallway, this one significantly more somber than the reception area, “I am a distant relation of your mother’s. You call me Uncle. Professor Dumbledore contacted me upon deciding to remove you from your family’s home, and I agreed to take you in; you have been living with me ever since. Do you have that, Potter?”

Harry wanted to tell the Professor— _Uncle_ —that most families called each other by their first names. Well, except for _his_ family, who’d mostly used “boy” when they wanted to refer to him. But Harry figured it would be different for an Uncle who actually wanted Harry around.

Though…. Harry started chewing his lip. The Professor had never said that he _wanted_ Harry around, had he? He’d said that he would let Harry stay. That he would sign something that would bind him to Harry, so that no matter how awful Harry was the Professor couldn’t kick him out. So that Harry would get to stay with him _unconditionally_ , because, Harry gathered, that was how Things Were Done. The Professor could tolerate Harry. Which was still more than the Dursleys, he figured.

A little bit of Harry’s excitement seemed to shrivel then, deflating something within him that had been, until that point, felt full to bursting. He wasn’t even really calling the Professor “Uncle”; this was just a part of their story, the one they needed to tell so that Harry would be allowed to stay with the man. The Professor would never let Harry address him so familiarly. And he certainly wouldn’t want to call Harry by his given name at all.

So Harry nodded mutely, then whispered, at the barest arch of the Professor’s eyebrow, “I’ve got it. I won’t mess it up, sir.”

The Professor’s lips thinned into an unpromising line. “That remains to be seen.”

Harry felt a light hand on one of his shoulders, and turned to see the Headmaster smiling down at him, though this was a more subdued smile than usual, it seemed. “You will do just fine, my boy.”

Harry really hoped so.

XXXXX

Severus was not nervous. Not in the least. And if he told himself that enough times, perhaps it would be true.

What galled him the most, he thought, as he strode down the familiar halls, was not that he was risking his personal freedom for James Potter’s child—for impersonation at an official hearing certainly carried a hefty sentence in Azkaban. It was not that he would revisit a Ministry Courtroom, where he was certain he would have to fight tooth and nail every second to ward off the awful memories of his trial after the war. It was not that he was following a classic, hare-brained, Dumbledorian scheme that had little to no chance of succeeding since it hinged entirely on the abilities of an eight-year-old thoroughbred Gryffindor, who likely did not have a dishonest bone in his body, to prevaricate before an official panel likely to include the Minister himself.

No, damn it all. The worst outcome he could imagine in this moment was losing Harry James Potter, Lily’s only child, to that blond, self-congratulating ponce Lucius Malfoy. Losing a boy he’d never wanted, a messy, troublesome child who’d introduced more chaos into Severus’ life in two weeks than ten decades’ worth of Hogwarts students.

Severus wanted it done. He wanted the papers signed, and he wanted the boy back in his home so that the matter could be considered settled. He wanted Potter stumbling about beside him in the kitchen, trying to be useful in preparing meals. He wanted nights of the boy tracing photos Severus had dug out, asking ever-so-delicately about his mother and her parents. Hell, he would even accept the boy’s incessant questions, that boundless thirst for knowledge, the desire to learn by proxy this other world he would soon live in, a world better than the one he’d known growing up. A world that would celebrate and cherish him as the Muggle world never had.

And now, now Severus was faced with the very real possibility that it would all be snatched away from him. That his anguish over this decision would have been for nothing, because the high-minded Ministry would intervene yet again and auction young Potter off to the highest bidder.

A glance down at Potter told him that the boy was also feeling the strain. The bounce had faded from his step, and his expression had clouded over with worry. Severus longed to say something comforting, but that had never been his forte—or even within his skill set. He knew that if he tried now, it would likely come across as snide or sarcastic and have the exact opposite of his intended effect.

So he kept quiet again and worked at reeling in his own nervousness, so that he might project and air of quiet confidence. That might reassure the boy more than any verbal cue. Though dense as the child was, he might need everything spelled out for him. Damn it, why was Albus not doing more to bolster the boy?

They’d arrived. Naturally, an Auror was stationed outside the courtroom, a thick-jawed man who looked grim and uncommunicative. Probably one of the dunderheads who passed thanks only to a few fortunate connections and a knack for anything involving brute force.

Dumbledore took the lead. “Excuse me, my good fellow,” he asserted gently, still sounding insufferably chipper, “but we are here with young Mr. Potter for his custody hearing. Albus Dumbledore, and the boy’s current guardian and relative Mr. Vladimir Afanasyev.”

The brick-headed Auror’s expression did not change in the least. He seemed to look them over for a moment (though to Severus’ eyes his gaze remained fairly vacant) before he gestured them through with his wand.

Reflexively, Severus touched his free hand to the amulet Afanasyev had gifted him. It rested against his bare skin, thrumming, emitting an impression of warmth without actually spreading heat—a peculiar property of most powerful Magical artifacts. Still in place, as was, he assumed, his transformation.

He’d wanted to trade wands with the man to complete the illusion, but Dumbledore had insisted that such attention to detail was unnecessary. “It is a family hearing, Severus, not a criminal case,” he’d explained, his voice somewhat grave for once.

Severus had not liked the blasé attitude, but he had not pressed the point. There had not been much time, and if anyone expected him of subterfuge during the hearing the exact make of his wand would likely be the least of their worries.

There was nothing to be done now. Either this farce would work or it would crumble, and then he and Albus both would be in a cauldron full of hot water. And Potter as well, though his plight would be less immediately perilous. Lucius would pamper and spoil the brat until such an occasion rose that he could benefit more from slaughtering the child (figuratively or literally) like a fatted calf.

Still, not a pleasant outcome to contemplate. In fact, one he’d sworn to himself that he would not contemplate until it was upon him. So he pushed the thought from his mind best he could, marshaling all his formidable skills of Occlumency, and pressed himself thoroughly into the role of Uncle Vladimir Afansasyev, distant relation of Lily Evans Potter, Master of Transfigurations and scholar in the field of Meta-Magics.

He drew himself up, took Potter by the shoulder, and charged forth into the courtroom.

It was smaller than the one he remembered from his trial, with no chair in the center, below the assembled body, chains ready to strangle the accused into submission. Instead, he found himself faced with a small assembled panel that sat across from them behind a slightly raised bench. Directly in front of that were two small tables with hard chairs, ostentatiously for the parties involved in the proceedings. Behind that were a few benches, presumably for witnesses or family members.

And to the left, seated with perfect poise, a smirk of triumph already on his face, was Lucius Malfoy. His wife sat beside him, face a blank, neutral expression, her eyes betraying her boredom. The little Malfoy spawn was nowhere in sight.

Severus tore his eyes away from the Malfoys and redirected his attention to the panel they were facing. As predicted, Cornelius Fudge sat in the Adjudicator’s chair, wearing the official dark, concealing robes of his position rather than his usual pinstripe suit and bowler hat. Beside him were a handful of officials that Severus did not recognize—a tall, pinch-faced witch who was so skin as to be skeletal, a portly wizard in peacock robes with a broad nose that looked as if it had been flattened, and a timid, mousy woman who wore gold-rimmed spectacles who was preoccupied with fussing over her many notes.

Fudge stood to greet them, a falsely cheery smile already fixed on his lips. “Albus,” he exclaimed. “So good of you to accommodate us. I apologize for the shifted schedule, but we had an opening”—a glance flickered to Malfoy, who nodded approvingly—“and I thought it best to get matters straightened out as quickly as possible for young Harry here. And what a handsome boy he is!”

Severus nearly gagged at the Minister’s bald attempt to manipulate the child.

Potter, surprisingly enough, did not seem impressed by the Minister’s friendly overture. He held himself warily, his small, thin body a mass of taut tendons.

“Harry, I am Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic. It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Hello, sir,” the boy mumbled, even as he shuffled a bit closer to Severus’ side.

Severus felt torn in two by urges both to push the boy away and make him face the Minister with his shoulders squared, and to wrap an arm around him and draw him closer. Merlin, draw him closer… what was happening to him?

Out of the corner of his eye, Severus saw Lucius rise gracefully, taking his cane in one hand and steadying himself against it. “Mr. Potter,” he greeted the boy, a snake-charmer’s smile curling his lips. “What a delight to see you again. I trust you’ve been well?”

Potter’s eyes flickered to Severus for a moment, searching for guidance. Severus nodded at him to respond. Rudeness at this juncture would gain them nothing.

“Hello, Mr. Malfoy,” the boy stammered.

“Lucius, please,” the man insisted in his oily voice. At last the blond seemed to acknowledge the two adults accompanying his little prize. “Headmaster,” he greeted Dumbledore, his voice turning instantly frosty. “And… my, a foreigner. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, though I’ve seen your name on the… petition.” Lucius’ silver eyes rested on Severus, full of steel and threat.

Severus affected a bored air. “Vladimir Afanasyev. And I am a born and raised Englishman, Mr. Malfoy, though I suppose someone outside of academic circles would not be aware of such things.”

Lucius sniffed, clearly not missing the slight. “I suppose it would be difficult to remain apprised, seeing as we run in… entirely different circles. Muggleborn, are you not?”

“Yes,” Severus replied evenly. “Though I find myself spending most of my time in correspondence with my colleagues. Those able to participate in stimulating conversation, as you might imagine. I doubt we’d be of interest to a man of means such as yourself, Mr. Malfoy.”

Lucius scowled. “Are you implying something, Mr. Afanasyev?” he inquired coolly, his voice carrying a hint of threat.

Severus had to repress his smirk. Pushing Lucius’ buttons was always an enjoyable pastime. “Merely making conversation. I did not realize you were so sensitive, Mr. Malfoy; I shall take great care in the future to avoid causing you to feel inferior.”

“I do not feel—” Lucius abruptly cut himself off, obviously realizing how defensive his vehement denial made him sound. “Well. Let us get through these formalities, shall we?” He turned a bright smile back on Potter. “Harry, we so look forward to having you join our family. Have your… guardians… informed you that we are hoping to take you in?”

The boy opened his mouth to reply, but Severus beat him to it. “We have informed him that you have expressed an interest, and that a hearing has been convened to determine whether or not you are suitable. I personally feel that blood should take precedence, but then, there are so many these days who have no respect for tradition….” There. Let Malfoy make what he would of that taunt.

Malfoy’s smirk only stretched wider, though there was certainly a flare of irritation in his eyes. “Oh, yes,” he agreed, “blood should take precedence.” And then the man mouthed _mudblood_ before turning his attention back to the panel. “But perhaps we should allow the Ministry’s representatives to determine the best course of action, yes?”

Fudge cleared his throat ostentatiously, clearly discomfited by the exchange he’d just witnessed. “Erm, yes. Yes. Well, let us call this meeting to order on this, the eighteenth of June in the year 1989. We are here to determine the matter of guardianship for one Harry James Potter, surviving heir to the Potter line, child of Lily Elizabeth Potter nee Evans, now deceased, and James Charlus Potter, now deceased. Represented the minor’s interests is Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, appointed proxy-guardian. Petitioning for guardianship are Lucius Abraxas Malfoy and Narcissa Cassiopeia Malfoy nee Black. Also petitioning is Vladimir Ivanov Alyosha Afanasyev. The Court will now hear from Imogen Belenfant, representative for Wizarding Family and Child Services.”

The mousy woman, who sat at on the far right side of the bench, shuffled her papers a few more times before rising to her feet. She cast a darting and all-too-obvious glance at Lucius Malfoy. “Thank you, Minister.” Her voice, pitched too high, had an obnoxious tendency to crack in odd places as she spoke. She cleared her throat before continuing, “I have reviewed young Mr. Potter’s situation and reasons for removal from his relatives’ home. Headmaster Dumbledore reports that it was discovered that his Muggle family was ill-equipped and ill-disposed to deal with his burgeoning magical powers. As it would be more than unseemly to allow _the_ Harry Potter to grow up deprived of his wizarding heritage and an education on our unique world, it has been decided to remove Mr. Potter to the custody of another, preferably magical guardian who will better be able to accommodate his accidental magic in addition to acclimating him to wizarding society.”

“Thank you, Imogen,” Fudge told the woman kindly, but it appeared that the witch was far from done.

After chancing another conspicuous glance at Malfoy, she continued quickly, her words running together, “It is my department’s opinion that Mr. Potter would do well to be placed with a strong, stable wizarding family, particularly one where he will have both maternal and paternal figures available to him. Even better would be for him to be placed with children close to his age, that they might help to socialize him and ease him into the traditions of our world.”

 _Such a beautifully reasoned argument_ , Severus thought bitterly.

Fudge at least had the sense not to look directly at Malfoy after this little speech. He merely nodded vigorously to the witch and agreed heartily, “Well put, my dear, well put. We are, of course, all looking to do what is in the boy’s best interests.”

It was at this point when Dumbledore stood. Severus could smell a scheme cooking there, and knew that the wily old man was preparing to counteract all the damage that had just been done to their case. “Minister, if I may speak?”

Fudge looked slightly startled. He glanced down at the stack of parchments before him, as if searching there for some pretense to bar the headmaster from voicing his opinion. “Well, we really have a—a structure for these sorts of things, Albus—”

“Nevertheless,” Dumbledore continued patiently, a firm core in his kindly tone. “I feel that it is prudent to respond to Ms. Belenfant’s concerns in my capacity as an educator. Having seen, oh, a few generations of students pass through the halls of Hogwarts, and having had the privilege of knowing many of them in some capacity, I must say that the one of the greatest factors in determining their success and resilience during their formative years is the nurturing presence of love. Where it is absent, curiosity shrivels and dies, and the child closes himself off from the world and his peers to better protect himself. Where it is present, the child flourishes like a flower in full bloom, embracing the world and its many wonders. It is not a question of the familial structure, Minister, but—in my own humble opinion—the quality of the bonds in place. So I humbly beg that you do not set a black mark upon Mr. Afanasyev’s record for being unwed and childless, for he has just as much to offer young Harry as any traditional family might.”

Love. Well, certainly the Headmaster was pulling out all the stops. Yes, certainly Severus _cared_ for the boy, and certainly he would do all in his power to keep the little brat safe and well, but he would not qualify such impulses as evidence of _love_ for Potter.

Not that he was foolish enough to clarify this before the panel.

The Minister cleared his throat awkwardly. “Yes. Well. Thank you for that input, Albus. We shall certainly take note. Now, we have hear the Ministry’s position on what is needed for Mr. Potter. Next, each petitioning party shall have a chance to make his case before this assembly and answer any questions posed by its members. Upon hearing both sides, the panel will deliberate and decide by majority vote. I as the Adjudicator of this hearing will declare the decision, which both parties agree to uphold on pain of severe punishment, as stipulated by Act 337, subsection C, clause 57. Do both parties present understand?” Fudge looked squarely at Severus, as if he’d been belligerent earlier and his cooperation was in question.

“Perfectly,” he agreed.

Only then did the Minister’s gaze swing to Lucius.

“Yes, Minister.”

Fudge beamed. “Excellent. Now, Mr. Afanasyev, you have the floor.”

Severus drew himself up to his full height—a strange sense in this new, unfamiliar body—and paced out to the open floor. Malfoy would put on a show, he knew, complete with exemplary elocution and some impressive strutting. One of the many perks of a pureblood upbringing.

As it was, Severus only had what little poise and presence his mother had been able to impart to him before the beginning of her decline. But it would have to do. He would not let Malfoy win.

Severus drew in a deep breath, and without further ado launched into his argument.

XXXXX

Harry really wished the Professor were more of the hugging sort. As it was, he wanted to squeeze the man right around the middle and never let go.

The Professor, still disguised as Uncle Vladimir, had gone on for simply _ages_ about how Harry was a bright and curious boy, about how they’d bonded, about how ready he was to make Harry a part of his life. He’d talked all about his plans for beginning to teach Harry the rudimentary subjects all young witches and wizards needed to learn—Latin, maths, grammar, astronomy (Harry didn’t know about that last one, but he wasn’t going to complain). He’d even said that Harry belonged in his home, that he looked on Harry as _his_.

It went a long way to erasing every last trace of doubt and unease that lingered in Harry since coming to the Ministry.

The witches and wizards sitting at the bench all listened politely (though the fat man in the bright blue eyes had drifted off once or twice) and said nothing while the Professor said his piece. Some of them nodded vaguely at the man or made little noises that indicated they were at least paying attention. Harry felt his heart climbing more and more as the Professor went on, because surely old Minister Fudge would see just how good he was to Harry and forget all about the Malfoys.

The Professor concluded with a soft, earnestly-uttered, “Witches and wizards, the only way I can honor the beloved memory of my cousin Lily Potter is by raising her son as she would have, and striving every day to impart her love and care to him. I pray that you allow me the opportunity to do so.”

With that, the Professor executed a shallow little bow to the panel and returned to their table, where the Headmaster clasped him on the back and murmured something too low for Harry to hear, something that caused the Professor’s perpetually-tight lips to soften just a touch.

“Well,” the Minister announced cheerfully, “we have heard from Mr. Afanasyev. Now, I believe the floor is Mr. Malfoy’s.”

The tall, blond man stood and swept into a low, graceful bow, one that looked a lot more eloquent than the Professor’s had, much as Harry hated to admit it. “Thank you, Minister, and a special thanks to you, Mr. Yaxley, Mrs. Tweetatter, and Ms. Belenfant, for taking time out of your schedules to preside over this hearing.” Malfoy trailed to the center of the room, his dark embroidered robes cascading behind him in a tumble of expensive fabric. “I will keep my argument short.

“Laudable though Mr. Afanasyev’s intentions may be, he is an elderly man and known recluse with no previous affinity for children. In fact, I believe that until very recently he inhabited a region as remote as Siberia. I ask you, does this sound like a man who should be charged with socializing young Harry Potter?

“Secondly, I present the issue of the man’s own knowledge of our world. Far be it from me to hold anything against the Muggleborns who join our world, but this does pose a practical problem, does it not? Mr. Afanasyev’s knowledge of our history, our customs, our very culture, is doubtless adequate, but rudimentary at best. He simply does not have the breadth of understanding that an older family possesses, and I contend that we should provide only the best for young Harry Potter. What better way to honor his parents’ sacrifices than to ensure that he is fully integrated into the very society they died to protect?”

Mr. Malfoy’s words were making Harry’s skin crawl. He sounded like Uncle Vernon simpering to his bosses when they stopped over for dinner in the evening, or Aunt Petunia when she was trying to suck up to a wealthy neighbor. The words sounded smooth and pretty on the surface, but underneath there was something twisted and ugly.

Mr. Malfoy turned to Harry and flashed him another of those genial smiles. “I am more than capable of providing for young Harry—and then some. He shall want for nothing, as is only fitting for a child who has given us so very much. We shall raise him alongside our son, Draco, teaching him all that we can, ensuring that his education is the very best available. He will have every opportunity to meet children his age, and to benefit from the wisdom of two parents who have always been prepared to rear children, and who are already experience in the field.”

Here Mr. Malfoy paused again, though Harry could tell it was just for dramatic effect. Like when Uncle Vernon would wait before delivering the punchline to one of his terrible jokes. The man looked carefully up and down the panel before him, then bowed his head slightly and lowered his voice.

“I confess another reason for this petition, ladies and gentlemen.” Malfoy lifted his head again. “Though I have at long last reconciled with my time spent under the Imperius Curse….”

There was some sympathetic gasping from the panel, and what sounded like a snort from the Professor.

“…I still feel unaccountably guilty for the horrors that plagued us less than a decade ago. I wish to atone somehow for that dark time, and I feel that there is no greater gesture than taking in an orphan of that time, the very child most robbed by cruel Fate, and raising him with the love and tenderness that his own parents would have afforded him had they lived.” Malfoy turned once more to Harry. “It would be an honor, my young friend, to welcome you to our home. I hope I am granted the privilege.”

Malfoy executed another elaborate bow before returning to his table.

“Well,” the Minister declared, “I think we have heard enough. I will ask both parties to give us time to retire, in order to deliberate over our choices—”

“Minister.” The Headmaster spoke quietly, but Harry noticed how easily that soft voice carried in the chamber, how it drew every head in the room. “If I may. Honorable though Mr. Malfoy’s intentions may be, there remains the fact that Mr. Afanasyev retains Right of Kin in matters of guardianship. Neither Lucius nor Narcissa can claim the same degree of relation to Mr. Potter, and our laws are unfortunately very clear in this matter.”

Fudge’s head snapped nervously to the side, to Mr. Malfoy, looking as though he were expecting a reprimand of some sort. “Well—yes, but—”

“But, Minister,” Mr. Malfoy inserted smoothly, his own gaze turning to Dumbledore, “we have decided that Right of Kin is not sufficient for deciding this matter. If it were, we would not be here, as the boy’s Muggle relatives would have undisputed right to raise him. Were they passing on this right, they would need to be here to renounce it, and they are not.”

“Well, as the hearing was moved with short notice, they could hardly be brought,” the Professor began angrily, but the Headmaster laid a hand on his arm.

“Vladimir,” he warned the man softly, before resuming his address of the room. “The Dursleys could not be here, and I had no wish to further traumatize them by exposing them to these proceedings. However—”

“Headmaster,” Mr. Malfoy interrupted, “I mean absolutely _no_ disrespect, but you have chosen to forego normal channels and procedures in order to see to the boy’s welfare yourself. Such high-handed interference flouts our very governing structure, don’t you agree? The only fair way to reach a decision is to turn power over to the experts before us; certainly they can be trusted to reach a decision that is best for the child.”

“Well put,” Fudge declared, nodding briskly. “And there is no reason to waste any more time deliberating, I believe. Perhaps we can vote now?” The Minister glanced over at his companions, who all nodded or murmured their agreement.

Beside Harry, the Professor went stiff as a board.

“All in favor of placement with the Malfoy family?” Fudge raised his hand, as did the Belenfant woman. Fudge glanced at the other two—the thin woman and the portly man—in alarm, as if he could not believe what he was seeing. “Hendrik? Trinity? We are voting—”

“Yes,” the bony woman—Trinity?—sniffed haughtily. “I, for one, believe in modesty and industry as foundational principles for child-rearing, neither of which are likely to be present in Mr. Malfoy’s home.”

“Agreed,” the portly man trilled, bobbling his head vigorously. “Mr. Afanasyev is a well-respected scholar. Young Potter could hardly do better than to have his formative years overseen by such an impressive man. Those in favor of placement with Mr. Afanasyev?” The two raised their hands without hesitation. Both stared expectantly at the Minister, who had begun to sweat profusely.

Fudge reached beneath his heavy black robes and withdrew an unattractive green and yellow-striped handkerchief, which he swabbed across his forehead. “Well. We are at a deadlock, I see. Hehe, sometimes I wonder why they do not require uneven numbers for these hearings. Well. What a pickle. I… erm….”

“I believe you will have to cast the deciding vote, Minister,” Mr. Malfoy offered quietly. His cool words made Harry shiver slightly.

“Yes. Yes, indeed.” His eyes flickered again toward the bony woman and the portly man. The bony woman was glaring at Fudge by then, her lips tight. She reminded Harry of Aunt Petunia when she was trying to get Uncle Vernon to say something nice to her in front of the neighbors or guests. “I suppose… well, really, young Harry should decide! This is, after all, his life. Both placements seem more than adequate for his needs, so of course the boy should simply tell us where he’d prefer to live, where he’d be most comfortable. Yes, that is my decision.”

Beside Harry, the Professor was bristling. “Minister, you cannot possibly invite an eight-year-old to make his own placement decision,” the Professor burst out. “He is a _child_ , unqualified to evaluate such things—”

“I see no reason that he should not,” Mr. Malfoy interrupted, a smug smile on his lips. “It is as the Minister has said, both placements are adequate. There remains only the question of where young Harry will feel most at home.” Malfoy paused, tilting his head to the side, causing his long blond hair to sway with the gesture. “Of course, I would ask that, in the interest of keeping things even, I be given equal time to bond with the boy. It would be unreasonable to ask him to make a decision before he has evaluated his choices.”

“Yes,” the Minister agreed, “a sound notion. Mr. Yaxley, Ms. Belenfant, Mrs. Tweetatter, are you in agreement with this?”

Mrs. Tweetatter harrumphed rather unhappily, nostrils flared and lips curled. “Scarcely. But I see no other choice, as we are of two minds and the decision rests with you, Minister.”

Fudge’s face twisted with a relieved smile. “Yes, yes. Yaxley?”

The portly man had begun stroking his moustache thoughtfully. “Very reasonable. I think we neglect too often the child’s own opinion in matters. Mr. Potter, do you have a preference for your placement at the moment?”

Harry’s tongue seemed to suddenly swell in his mouth, so much that he could scarcely force words out. After a moment of working it around, he finally managed to mumbled shyly, “I’d really like to stay with—with Uncle, sir.” Blast it! He’d almost said ‘the Professor’, had almost ruined the whole charade! He wanted to run and hide in the bathroom where no one could ask him more questions that might trip him up.

Mr. Malfoy laughed from across the room. Harry could tell that he wasn’t really laughing, though; it was fake, strained, like he was trying to cover something up. Something else he’d picked up around the Dursleys. “Such a loyal, affectionate boy! But young Harry, perhaps you would give us a chance? My son Draco would love a brother, and you certainly deserve the love and affection of two devoted parents.”

Harry froze, the breath in his lungs stilling as those words hit him. He glanced at Mrs. Malfoy, who smiled slightly at him and dipped her head in both greeting and agreement. Mr. Malfoy had a son too, Harry thought. He’d said a son about Harry’s age. A brother.

He hadn’t liked Mr. Malfoy at first, and he would certainly miss the Professor, and especially everything the Professor could tell him about his mother. But the Professor didn’t really want him. Mr. Malfoy and his family did; they were here in court, fighting for him, because they wanted him so much. No one had ever wanted Harry.

“Well, that settles it,” Yaxley murmured, adding a stiff, approving nod to his words. “Mr. Potter will be under the Malfoys’ care for two weeks. We shall reconvene here the Friday after next to witness the boy’s decision and follow up with the appropriate forms. You agree, Minister?”

“I do. It is so ordered.” The Minister picked up his gavel and brought it down sharply on the bench before him. “Well then. Mr. Potter, your custody is hereby transferred to Lucius Abraxas Malfoy and Narcissa Cassiopeia Malfoy on a provisional basis, effective immediately. The present members of this body will reconvene in two weeks; the affected parties will be notified via owl with an official summons. I declare this hearing—”

“Minister,” the Headmaster interrupted gently, his voice grave, “I believe there is the matter of allowing the boy to say goodbye and gathering his things. Perhaps the official transfer of custody could be delayed until the morning?”

Mr. Malfoy made a rude scoffing sound. “Minister, I believe this is a sad attempt to buy more time in which the boy’s mind might be poisoned against me—not that it has not been poisoned already. I must insist that we take custody immediately, so that the boy’s first impressions of my family are no more warped than they already might be.”

The Minister was nodding vigorously at Mr. Malfoy by the time he’d finished speaking. “Absolutely, absolutely. Couldn’t agree more. Albus, couldn’t your Mr. Afanasyev send the boy’s things over? Really, it is rather late already, and I am certain Mr. Potter would like to be settled in his new home as quickly as possible.”

The Headmaster stroked his beard thoughtfully. His eyes were unusually sharp, though, Harry thought. Usually they were soft and kind and had a kind of light to them that made him think of mischief. Now they were blue and flat, and reminded him very much of the Professor’s black eyes.

“I can see your point, Minister, but Harry really has become quite attached to his uncle. Perhaps you could permit him to retrieve Harry’s things and hand them off here, so that they might exchange a proper goodbye? All within the Ministry’s walls, of course, so that the Aurors could intervene at the slightest hint of Compulsory or Coercive Magics.”

The Minister darted a nervous glance at Mr. Malfoy, who didn’t look too happy with the Headmaster’s suggestion. “I… ehem…. I see no reason not to grant such a reasonable request. But—no more than an hour! That is, Mr. Afanasyev is to return home, gather the boy’s effects, return here, and bid the boy his proper farewell all within that time. Do the members of the board agree?”

Mrs. Tweetatter merely gave a curt dip of her head in assent. Yaxley was bobbing his head gently, as though he were still lost in thought. Belenfant was still looking to the Malfoys, gauging her reaction by their expressions. But her thoughts didn’t matter, it seemed, because Fudge charged ahead anyway.

“Excellent. In one hour, then, Harry Potter shall officially revert to the care of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. It is so ordered.” The Minister banged his gavel once more, and a slight tingle of—something—murmured through the air, washing over Harry. It seemed to make his very blood tingle.

Harry dared to sneak a glance at the Headmaster, whose expression was blank, and then at the Professor. And it was the look on the man’s face, even on those unfamiliar features, that caused his heart to stutter. The man looked lost, as though a slight breeze might knock him over.

Suddenly, Harry was not so very sure that the Professor didn’t want him. His heart clenched hard in his chest. “Uncle?” he prompted softly, fighting the urge to grab at the older man’s hand.

“Vladimir,” the Headmaster murmured. “You must make haste. I will remain with Harry.”

The Professor nodded slightly, casting one final, troubled glance at Harry. “I will be back.” His voice came out hoarsely. “I….” He trailed off, then snapped his mouth shut and nodded once sharply to himself. And with that he strode from the room, leaving Harry feeling overwhelmed.


End file.
